Here's To A Witty Girl
by cheyanneasaur
Summary: Éponine was blindly devoted to Marius and Enjolras gave his heart and soul to Patria, but where do they turn when love fails and the barricades fall?
1. Chapter 1

1

The Café Musain looked ready to burst. _Les Amis de l'ABC _were running around as usual, carrying wine, women, or a tune as they went about their pre-meeting affairs. Grantaire, his cheeks already a mite rosy from the evening's first bottle of wine, was sauntering over to the bar to claim a second when his brown eyes fell upon the pitifully frail form of Éponine Thénardier sitting hunched and alone at one of the back tables. His alcohol-induced smile slipped into a look of friendly concern and he sidled over to the girl, afraid she may fly at him in anger for the lewd comment he made to her the day before.

"Hey, 'Ponine, what're you doing all by yourself, _ma petite chère_?" Grantaire asked, ducking his head slightly to try and get a look at the girl's face. If she was mad about the line he had dropped, she didn't show it. Grantaire was too busy searching for anger to notice the wet streaks on her dirty cheek and the fresh tears brimming in her chocolate eyes.

She turned away, wiping her face on the grimy sleeve of her tan overcoat. "I am waiting for Marius, _monsieur_. He said he had a favour to ask of me." The unsteadiness of her voice did not go unnoticed by the drunk and his glassy eyes widened as she turned her face briefly, flashing him a tear-stained smile.

"Éponine, what's the matter? Let me go grab us a bottle of wine," he said with genuine concern, quickly touching her shoulder reassuringly before turning back to the bar. He needed the wine just as much as she did; he wasn't good with the problems of women, only the pleasing of them.

Grantaire decided to buy two bottles, and after grabbing them from the busty barmaid with a wink, he unsteadily turned back to go over to Éponine. The table was empty. At first he thought it curious, but his attitude changed when he looked down at his hands and the two bottles he held.

"More for me, _mon ami_," he said to himself, plopping into the nearest rickety chair and ruffling his own curly brown hair in contentment. Grantaire opened the first bottle with a pleased sigh and, raising the wine above his head, yelled at his gathering group of friends, "_Vive la France_!" before chugging half of the carafe in one go.

The rest of _Les Amis _cheered in response so loud that Éponine, who had dashed out of the Café Musain after Grantaire had turned his back, heard their whooping in the street below. Her sad eyes turned to look up at the glowing window and the sounds of happiness and drunken, manly revelry fell upon her finely tuned ears.

With a sigh she walked out of the circle of light she was standing in and moved to sit in one of the darkened doorways of the businesses around the Café. Her bare foot caught painfully on a sharp piece of stone that had broken free from its place in the cobbled street. Éponine cursed aloud, holding back the curtain of her limp brown waves as she bent over to examine the damage the damned rock had done to her foot.

"_Mademoiselle_, you may not want to be saying such words so loudly, you may offend someone," a man called from somewhere behind her.

"I hope I haven't offended, _monsieur_, but it is anyone's natural reaction to pain," she replied without looking up, gingerly lifting her foot and reaching out to touch the blood she found pouring from her big toe. She sucked in the cool night air audibly, noticing that there was a piece of the assailant stuck underneath of her skin.

Éponine heard the man walk up and, finally looking up at him, noticed it was Enjolras, the leader of _la révolution. _The quickness at which she had looked up had thrown her off balance, and she began to fall towards the pavement with a yelp of surprise.

Before she could connect with the ground however, two strong arms shot out to interrupt her descent. Her breath caught in her throat, relief and surprise washing over her at the same time.

"Good evening, Éponine, it is nice to see you as well," Enjolras said with a sarcastic smile as he helped her right herself. She smiled wanly back, sad that it was not her Marius who was in such close proximity to her. Tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks again at the thought of her – _no, Cosette's_ – Marius.

A look of surprise and apology replaced the jovial sarcasm on Enjolras' face, concern clouding his brilliantly blue eyes. He stooped his shoulders and squinted in the dark at the crying girl, trying to make sure she was genuinely crying and it was not his eyes deceiving him. When she turned her face towards the Café, the warm light from the upstairs window bathed her face in a yellow glow that revealed her accusing tears to the man.

"Éponine, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, _monsieur_, that concerns you," she replied, trying to sound tough. It only made her sound like a brat.

"If it were nothing, you would not be crying," Enjolras insisted, standing up straight again and shaking his wavy blonde hair from his face. His usually serious face had softened when he saw that her tears were genuine and he placed one of his large hands on her emaciated shoulder, a gesture of unprecedented familiarity.

Éponine sighed, both an exasperated and lonely sound at the same time. "_Monsieur_, you do not know me, what is it to you?" She turned her grubby, tear-stained face to his impeccably clean one and shook her head when he opened his mouth to answer but shut it again without a word.

"Exactly. Neither I, nor my problems, matter to you, or anyone," Éponine smiled ruefully, shrugging out of his gentle touch. She turned and began to hobble off in the direction of the Café, certain that Marius would be there soon to ask his favour of her. She did not want to be late for him, or worse, be caught crying. _How shameful!_

Enjolras let her go, his face returning to its usual statuesque seriousness. He took in a deep breath of beautiful summer air, not needing an explanation from the unfortunate girl to draw his own conclusions. _It must be something Pontmercy has done, or perhaps not done_, he mused.

A sigh similar to Éponine's escaped his lips as he straightened his black satin waistcoat and shook his head to clear his mind. _It is none of my business; not my concern_, Enjolras thought. It was time to make one of his weekly speeches, rallying _Les Amis de l'ABC_ for the revolution that was drawing ever nearer.

"It is not time to be thinking of pretty, witty girls or their tears, Enjolras," he said to himself before walking into the Café Musain to receive the familiar applause and praise.

* * *

**A/N**: _Hey guys! I'm actually writing again, oh my God. I promise to stick with it this time, this is actually something I really want to see happen. Anyway! I hope you enjoyed it and I welcome any and all suggestions/comments/questions - trust me, I love/need people to bounce ideas off of. Oh, and I hope you all enjoyed the new Les Mis movie! Seen it three times, and counting._


	2. Chapter 2

2

Enjolras' mind quickly returned to thoughts of France once he stepped into the Café. She was his one and only, the single woman worth giving a damn about. Stepping onto his usual table at the front of the room, a makeshift stage of sorts, he began to preach of _liberté, egalité, fraternité_ and to talk of the impending war. It would not be long before Lemarque was dead, he reminded them.

Not far into his speech, a thin film of sweat appeared on his high forehead and blonde tendrils of hair clung to his temples. Enjolras did not mind; he was doing what he lived for. From his place standing atop a table, his heart swelled with pride at the sight of the small crowd before him. Their obvious eagerness to unite in a common cause, despite a few very different opinions, fueled his passion.

"Friends! The revolution is near," he bellowed, brandishing his pistol for emphasis. His shout was met with appreciative and enthusiastic cheers from _Les Amis de l'ABC_. Enjolras' gaze swept across his audience, his group of friends and acquaintances, all willing to fight for his mistress.

"_Vive la France! Vive la France!_" they all called back in unison, fierce looks mixed with boyish smiles. That is to say, all except Grantaire, who was passed out as usual, and Marius Pontmercy. This was highly irregular. A pang of irritation shot through Enjolras and he drew his smile into a thin line, the only outward sign of his annoyance.

"Pontmercy!" he called when the patriotic chants had quieted. The young man looked up from his whispered conversation with the street girl, Éponine. A blush was spreading across his face, reaching his dark hairline and the tips of his ears when he noticed that most of the men had turned to stare. Éponine looked anywhere but up, feeling Enjolras' accusing eyes on her as well.

"My apologies," he answered. Marius' brave façade was broken when his voice cracked mid-sentence. Unfortunately for him, the Café was so quiet that the revolutionaries could have heard a fly sneeze. His deep brown eyes widened as another wave of embarrassment crashed upon him. Joly hid his smirk behind a cough, but Courfeyrac had a large, toothy grin plastered across his face at the sight of his closest friend being so noticeably flustered.

"Are you, or are you not, part of _Les Amis_, Pontmercy?" Enjolras asked sternly, arching an eyebrow but otherwise keeping his marble face emotionless. Marius shifted awkwardly in his seat to face Enjolras directly, much to Éponine's dismay. He had been so close to her, their knees actually touching beneath the table.

Éponine's smile slipped from her face when she felt the warmth of Marius' knee removed from hers. This slight movement caught Enjolras' eye, and he studied her face closely. He saw, with a total lack of surprise, how her demeanor had changed since he had seen her outside. _Pontmercy has to know, she is hardly trying to hide her feelings_, he thought. Although he was inwardly pleased to see that her tears had dried, he could not help but be a touch annoyed – but why?_ It is none of my business; not my concern_. He leveled his steady gaze upon Marius once again, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

Clearing his throat and bowing his head respectfully, Marius answered with a fervent "Of course." When he raised his eyes again, he gave his leader an apologetic smile and shrugged his shoulders in an uncomfortable attempt at brushing it off. Enjolras snorted in response, one corner of his mouth pulling upwards, a smile threatening to crack his granite-like expression. Marius and Grantaire were the only two who did not cower when faced with that stare and it was highly amusing to watch them struggle to be brave.

"Well, that is it for this evening my friends, unless anyone can think of something we have not yet gone over," Enjolras said without preamble, recapturing the attention of the group. This suggestion earned a muffled cheer from Grantaire whose face was pressed against the bar. He thrust his fist in the air lethargically as what Enjolras interpreted as a mark of approval. With that, the meeting was over.

Stepping down from his "stage," Enjolras picked his way across the room that was beginning to hum excitedly with post-meeting conversation. He had his sights set on the back table at which Marius had returned to his conversation with Éponine. It was obviously something very important to the man, as his hands were gesturing wildly and seemingly without much purpose. Speeches were not one of Marius' strong points, he noted with a secret smile.

"_Bon nuit, _my friends," he began with a pleasant smile. "May I take a closer look at your foot, _mademoiselle_? I could not get a very close look at it in the dark and wish to make sure that you are doing alright."

Éponine stiffened, mortified, when Marius' eyebrows shot up suggestively. Her now dry cheeks were ablaze when she turned her face to look up at Enjolras. He noticed her blush with satisfaction. Silently, Éponine extracted her leg from beneath the table, removing her knee from Marius' for the second time that evening, and placed her foot in front of Enjolras' feet.

Marius stood to leave, squeezing Éponine's upper arm in a farewell. He reminded her to do what he had asked of her earlier and she nodded sadly, looking down at the floor. There was a distant, dreamy look in his eyes as he left the Café and a spring in his step that there hadn't been before.

"I promise that I'll be okay, _monsieur_," the girl insisted as she turned her attention back to Enjolras, her cheeks still uncomfortably warm and her eyes threatening tears again. "I spend enough time on the streets to have had worse happen to my feet."

"Nonetheless, friends check on one another," he replied, bowing with a flourish before kneeling before her foot. She noticed that he was trying very hard to prove that she meant something to him, referencing their conversation from a few hours ago. Éponine couldn't lie, the idea that he was putting effort into her made her heart beat faster with excitement. _Oh, if only he was Marius_.

Squinting hard, it was difficult for Enjolras to tell if she had removed the rock, as the wound was covered in dried blood and dirt. He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew from it a clean handkerchief. Ignoring Éponine's awkward objections and venomous threats of revenge, he tied it around the upper half of her right foot.

"I know it may not be much, and it certainly is not clean," he said as he stood up and admired his handiwork, "but it will protect you from getting anything new in your wound."

Éponine was speechless. She lifted her foot and marveled at the contrast between the crisp white linen and her filthy foot. Why was he being so friendly? _He must feel sorry for me_, she thought in frustration. No one was ever nice to Éponine for the sake of being nice.

"Th – thank you, _monsieur_," she managed, a twinge of irritation noticeable around the edges of her speech but a smile playing on her lips. Her eyes, which were glistening with unshed tears a few moments before, were sparkling with girlish pleasure at the simple gesture. In this moment, the grime and the stress of the Parisian streets seemed to melt away from the girl's face and she was once again a beautiful young woman. Enjolras smiled appreciatively, his Apollonian features once again softening in toward the pitiful creature. However, before Enjolras could make a comment there was a loud shout from the stairs.

"LISTEN, EVERYBODY!" screamed the little urchin, Gavroche. His greasy blonde mop was plastered to his head by sweat, an indication that he had been running to catch _Les Amis _before they dispersed for the evening.

"What is it, little Gavroche?" asked Joly, running to the stairs and handing Gavroche his bottle of wine. The fatigued boy took it and gulped at it like a man who had been lost in the desert. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve when he had finished, he handed the bottle back to Joly and returned his excited blue gaze on the audience he held captive in suspense.

"General Lemarque is dead. The revolution begins soon!"

"_Vive la France_!"

* * *

**A/N**: _Look! I got things done in a relatively timely fashion (okay, it was kinda stupidly fast, but still). I didn't mean for this chapter to end where it did, or for it to take this long to get to Lemarque dying. Ah, well! I've got the next few planned out super perfectly. Thank you for reading this story, and if you have any comments or suggestions I'm always open. Much love and thanks, and I promise to update again soon!__  
_


	3. Chapter 3

3

Éponine dashed out of the Café and into the cool night air. Her head was spinning and her heart was racing in her chest. She knew that the revolution meant fighting and that fighting meant that Marius could die. Unconsciously, Éponine hugged herself tightly to keep the ever rising tide of panic from drowning her, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the holes in her tattered green dress. A soft sigh escaped from between her chapped lips as she leaned her body against the doorframe, resting her head on the well-worn wood and closing her eyes thoughtfully.

Marius had asked her to wait at the Café until he had returned so that she could take him to see his new lady love, _that bourgeois two-a-penny thing_, _Cosette_. What he saw in her past her beauty and money, Éponine could not tell. She smiled crookedly at the memory of tormenting Cosette as a child. Behind the smile her heart was aching.

"The world really is a remarkable place."

"Why's that, 'Ponine?" said Marius as he casually walked up to the entrance to the Café. Éponine's eyes flew open and she straightened her posture, nervously smoothing the ragged folds of her skirt. Her crooked grin became a contented smile when Marius reached her side.

"No reason, _monsieur_. Are you ready?" she said as eagerly as possible, grabbing his jacket sleeve. He nodded, his voice failing him at that moment.

The pair set off silently in the direction of 55 _Rue Plumet_. Marius was lost in his thoughts of Cosette – of her beautiful smile, her flowing, flaxen tresses, and the way his world seemed to change when their eyes met. Éponine could feel her heart falling apart, piece by jagged piece, every time he said her name.

* * *

The rain had stopped along with Éponine's tears. She didn't know how late or early it was, or exactly why she was still walking; all she noticed was that her feet had carried her back in the direction of the Café Musain, and she was standing on the _Pont Neuf_. The only sound was the _drip_, _drip_, _drip_ of the fresh trickling from the bridge and into the river below. The crooked eaves of the buildings on the _Place Saint-Michel_ were swallowed in the inky blackness that comes with that time of the night. Éponine knew her way around, despite the only lights being the moon and the stars, half hidden by fleeing rain clouds.

Éponine splashed her feet idly in one of the deeper puddles in the middle of the uneven street, dirtying the handkerchief worse and worse by the minute. There was an acute stinging sensation radiating from her foot but Éponine paid it no heed. She was coping with her broken heart as best she could: by pretending that Marius was with her.

"I always find that, in the rain, the pavement shines like silver. Wouldn't you agree, _mademoiselle_?"

"Enjolras! I-I…," she managed. The girl's eyes were wide as she stopped her reverie to look up at him. Enjolras thought he could hear her heart beat faster than a hummingbird's wings in the deafening silence that followed. She had not heard him approaching and was only alerted of his presence when he was standing only a foot or so away from her, on the outskirts of her puddle.

"I apologize; I did not mean to catch you unawares. I thought that you had heard me walk up," he said with a slight bow. Enjolras began to walk past the girl, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

Unexpectedly, the _gamine_ stepped out of the puddle and touched Enjolras' arm gently to stop him. When the realization of what she had done set in she withdrew her hand with embarrassment and shock. The rhythm of their heartbeats became synchronized.

"Wh-what brings you out so late, _monsieur_?" Éponine asked when he had turned to face her again. His stony face was covered in an inexplicable and uncomfortable blush that, had it not been so dark, the girl would have noticed and laughed about.

Clearing his throat, Enjolras explained that he couldn't sleep and, as he lived just across the bridge on the _Quai des Grand-Augustins_, he often walked himself into weariness on nights like these. Éponine could guess why he wasn't able to sleep without asking; it was practically written all over his face.

"Will Marius die _monsieur_?" Éponine whispered, staring searchingly into his face through the darkness. Even the gloom couldn't hide Enjolras' obvious annoyance.

"We stand on the brink of war – a war that may change your life for the better – and all you can think of is Pontmercy?"

It wasn't a question, it was an accusation. Although his face remained stony and calm, his voice was cut with frustration. When Éponine floundered for a response, her mouth opening and closing again in indignation, he cocked a perfect eyebrow and crossed his arms in impatience. There were so many things she could throw back, but they were all too terrifying to finally say aloud. _I love him_, she screamed in her mind, _but only on my own_. As the seconds continued to tick by and the pair continued to become increasingly agitated, Enjolras chose to be the bigger – or perhaps, the lesser – man in the situation. He turned on his heel and began to walk in the direction of _Saint-Michel_.

"Don't you dare turn your back on me! Do you think that all I am is Marius' shadow? I have _feelings_, too!"

Enjolras turned around slowly, having only made it a few feet away. Her shout was ringing in his ears, the sound of her anger bouncing around his brain. In the time it took him to face her, Éponine had closed the gap and was standing on her tip toes, her face only inches from his own. Her eyes were ablaze with anger and drowning in tears simultaneously. He opened his mouth to make a mocking remark but was stopped short by a swift slap to the face.

Enjolras felt nothing but shock for the seconds following her outburst. His mind went blank for the first time since he had heard that Lemarque was dead, and it was his turn to open and close his mouth like a fish. The stinging in his left cheek brought him back to reality and he lifted his hand to stroke the tender, reddening area.

Éponine's mouth had fallen open and her eyes had grown as wide as saucers from the moment she felt herself make contact with his skin. She shook her head dumbly, her arms snaking around herself tightly. She tried to hold her body together as she was overcome by violent sobs.

"I'm sorry, _monsieur_. I'm so sorry," she repeated, her eyes focused on his chest and the gold buttons on his crimson jacket, unseeing through the hot tears that were streaming freely down her cheeks.

As the shock wore off completely, Enjolras took in the sight before him. Here was a girl, this pitiful _gamine_, who had just assaulted him. She was thin, she was dirty, and she was crying. Her tear-soaked eyes were windows to her very heart and soul, and Enjolras saw them both being ripped to shreds. His own heart, reserved only for France and kept under lock and key, ached for the fragile creature. The frustration that was there before and the anger that was threatening to bubble over when she had slapped him, evaporated at the gut-wrenching sound of her sobs.

Wordlessly, Enjolras stepped forward to close the remaining inches between them. She flinched, holding her arms in front of her face to defend from his inevitable retaliation. Gingerly and ever so cautiously, he wrapped his arms around her flimsy frame. Éponine froze, holding back her sobs in fear and surprise. When she realized that he was not trying to harm her, her body sagged into his chest and her arms moved to clutch onto his sleeves as her sobs shook her again. Enjolras held her with her head tucked securely under his chin, uncomfortable and unsure.

"Please, _monsieur_, please do not leave me right now," she managed to choke out as he had moved to awkwardly step away from the embrace a few silent minutes later.

"What has you so upset?" Éponine could feel his chest rumbling as he spoke, and the feeling was strangely reassuring.

"I have been left once already today. Please don't leave me, too." She knew that she need not say anymore, Enjolras could draw his own conclusions.

_Marius_.

Enjolras sighed, his exhalation of breath ruffling her hair, but he did not try to move again until she was ready. How could he? He felt oddly responsible for the girl. After all, she was practically the embodiment of all he was fighting for. This was like a chance to prove his dedication to France, _and to this child without a friend_.

The pair stood in that pose in the middle of the _Pont Neuf_ for what seemed like eternity, but was in reality only a few minutes. Éponine calmed her sobs and her tears soon transformed into sniffles, and her tears turned into hiccups. She had slowed her racing thoughts by listening to the _thump, thump, thump_ of Enjolras' too quickly beating heart. For the first time in her life, she was not picturing Marius was holding her when she closed her eyes. This man, this living statue with a gentle heart, was offering her his honest friendship and that was more that anyone had ever given her before. That knowledge was a soothing balm to her wounded spirit.

* * *

**A/N: **_I know it's a little rushed, a little sappy, and a little out of character, but I tried really hard to make it as in character as possible for Enjolras. And no, this isn't the start of something super fluffy just yet. I've got big things planned for the next chapter though, so just you wait. Bear with me! Oh, and any comments or suggestions are welcome as always. Much love, everyone!_


	4. Chapter 4

4

The bells of Notre Dame began to toll, signaling the arrival of midnight. As the ringing died away, the spell that had been holding the two together died, too. With an uncertain cough Enjolras stepped away from Éponine. He straightened his signature black vest, obviously flustered. His look of insecurity vanished at the sight of the small grin playing on Éponine's lips. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry and her body had finally stopped shaking. Neither spoke for what felt like an hour, looking anywhere but at each other.

"When will it start? The fighting, I mean."

"I suspect it will all start tomorrow – or rather, today," Enjolras replied with a confident smirk and a nod toward Notre Dame. "On the tomb of Lemarque shall our barricade rise."

"Where, _monsieur_?" she asked, wringing her hands nervously in front of her chest. She looked into Enjolras' face boldly for the first time since she had slapped him. Her cheeks began to colour slightly at the memory.

Enjolras cocked his head to the side, studying her by the increasing light of the moon. _Does she mean to fight with us? Is it all for Pontmercy, or is it perhaps because she supports the cause?_ He hoped it was the latter. She held his gaze while he considered her motives, stopping her nervous hand movements to cross her arms in front of her chest. The stern look she was giving him was the mirror image of his own.

"At the _Rue de la Chanverrerie_," he finally answered. She gave him a nod of understanding, looking across the bridge in the direction of the _Rue Saint-Denis _and imagined the barricades and blood. Enjolras followed her gaze and sighed wistfully.

_One day more_, they thought in unison.

Clearing his throat Enjolras turned to Éponine. She turned her eyes to him with difficulty, as though she had seen spotted something which she had been searching for on the opposite bank. Her brown eyes were glassy with thought and not tears, and the smile on her smudged face was tinged with the marks of a sad epiphany, but the effect of her smile was the same as earlier at the Café. She was beautiful in her distraction.

"Let me see you home, _mademoiselle_. It is late and I am still far too restless for sleep." There was no question in his unwavering blue stare and Éponine knew that arguing would get her nowhere. She avoided the situation however, by explaining that she shouldn't go home until the next night, or perhaps the night after that. Her father would be upset that she had no money to bring home. _And Marius is there, mooning over that stupid Cosette_.

Enjolras started to reach into his pockets and the _gamine_ stopped him with a gentle touch to his right forearm. She shook her head sadly, her beautiful smile gone and replaced by a look of weariness.

"I don't want your money, sir," she mumbled.

"I apologize," said Enjolras, holding up his hands contritely, "but where will you go?"

Éponine laughed. It was a sound devoid of humor and filled instead with incredulity. The laugh was short and rough, quite unlike what a woman's laugh should be. Her voice was always hoarse and as melodious as a gunshot, but her laughter at this moment was unnerving. Enjolras wondered how often she laughed.

"_Monsieur_, you don't need to worry about a street rat like me. Éponine knows her way around," she replied, sarcasm and double entendre oozing from every word. Enjolras sighed in defeat.

"In that case, goodnight," he said with a small bow. His face was as unreadable as marble again, but his demeanor indicated that he was displeased with her decision. _Gamine_ or not, she was still a woman and the streets of Paris were unsafe. Enjolras was always a gentleman, despite his stony exterior.

The girl, who hadn't moved throughout their conversation except to stare strangely into the darkness, surprised Enjolras. In two quick steps she covered the distance between them and softly planted a kiss on Enjolras' cheek. Without another word or a second glance, Éponine turned and walked toward the _Quai de la Mégisserie._

"The only woman I will ever understand is France," he whispered into the night. He rubbed his cheek where her lips had been thoughtfully and watched as Éponine's retreating figure was swallowed by the darkness.

* * *

"Please, someone just blow out the sun," groaned Grantaire. He blew at the rays of light feebly, screwing his eyes shut against the sun that was filtering in through the windows of the Café. In the excitement of the previous night's impromptu war planning, Grantaire had gotten even drunker than usual and had passed out, face first, on the bar. His back was aching and his mouth was dry but he couldn't help but feel the secondhand excitement that seemed to linger in the empty tavern.

With a sleepy smile he sat up and stretched like a cat. Looking down he saw the note that had been left for him poking out from beneath his half-full mug of ale. The note read:

_Do not forget to meet Lesgle and Gavroche in Les Halles at noon._ _– E_

"I shan't forget, but perhaps I just won't show," he sneered at the note, chuckling at his own wit. Grantaire combed his tangled curls with his hand haphazardly, doing so more out of boredom than out of vanity, and stood stiffly to straighten out his rumpled clothing.

The bells of the city's churches began to ring loudly and Grantaire counted the rings thoughtfully. _Nine_, he noted with a sigh and a loving thought of the comfortable bed in his townhouse. He had three hours; he should go home to the _Rue Jacob_ and get more sleep, or perhaps get in a little bit of exercise with a lovely lady.

"After all," Grantaire said as he pocketed the note and left an extra five francs on the bar for the owner's kindness, "I won't be missed if I don't turn up. Enjolras can play war without me, just this once."

* * *

Éponine woke early, despite having been wandering the streets until well past midnight. She had spent the night with her brother Gavroche in the elephant statue which he called home. When she had rolled over to wish the little blonde boy a good morning, she found that he had already left. _He and I can't be related_, she thought in disbelief.

She stood slowly, her achy joints popping like an old woman's the whole way up. The life of the poor was almost guaranteed to age even the heartiest prematurely, and Éponine was miserably frail. When she was finally upright and done creaking, she climbed the rickety rope ladder up and out of the elephant and emerged into the warm June sunshine. Her breath caught in her throat at the beauty of it all; the view of Paris from the alleyways couldn't compare to the view from above. For a few moments she simply sat in the opening at the top of the statue and basked in the early morning sun.

"I wonder if this is how it feels to be rich," Éponine muttered, a crooked smile sneaking across her features. Sighing regretfully at having to leave her throne, she clambered down with all the grace of a young boy. Her dark green skirt blew up in the summer breeze but it was early enough that hardly anyone was walking about. Just as her dirty bare feet hit the even dirtier pavement, the church bells began to sing out the time. It was nine o'clock in the morning on June the 5th.

"Right on time," Éponine sang to herself, her cacophonous voice tinged with sorrow and resignation as she dashed off quickly in the direction of the Gorbeau House. She had too much to do this morning to bother with walking or thoughts of Marius. Éponine was so distracted that she had almost forgotten what had happened the night before. _Almost_.

* * *

Enjolras couldn't forget. It took him at least three hours after Éponine had left to calm his buzzing mind enough to even consider walking home to sleep. When he finally trudged back to his home on the _Quai des Grand-Augustins_, his mind blank from exhaustion, he fell into an overstuffed arm chair in the living room and slept like the dead.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of the bells of Notre Dame de Paris ringing nine times. His heart skipped a beat when he realized what time it was. _There is work we have to do_. Enjolras stood up groggily and stumbled into his bedroom, calling for a warm bath to be drawn. He stood in front of his mirror and stared into his own cornflower blue eyes, searching the depths of his soul for the strength to do what he must today. To be able to send men to their deaths. To be able to send himself there, too. Did he have it in him to do it, once and for all?

Enjolras' thoughts turned to Éponine: her sad eyes, her ripped dress, the dirt that covered her once beautiful face. He owed it to her – to France, and to all those like her – to pick up his musket and fight.

"_Monsieur_, the water is ready!"

* * *

**A/N: **_Sorry this seems a lot like a filler chapter, guys! I promise it was necessary though, and that the start of the revolution is coming up next! No, but really. I needed to establish some more of the feels, and a little bit more of Grantaire (he's gonna be pretty important, just you wait) before I could start anything else. You won't be disappointed with the next chapter, Scout's Honour!_

_Questions, comments, or concerns - just contact me. Oh, and if you want to follow my blog, feel free, I'll give you the URL._

_Have a lovely day/night, everybody!_


	5. Chapter 5

5

It was finally here: the moment _Les Amis de l'ABC _had been waiting for, planning for, and dreaming for, for what felt like a lifetime. General Lemarque was dead and June 5, 1832, was his funeral. That beautiful June day marked the start of _la revolution_. The hundreds of people who had gathered throughout the streets along the route of the funeral procession seemed to melt into one mass that moved, breathed, and felt as one. The people of Paris were all mourning the loss of The People's Man.

The friends had settled on meeting on the left bank, near the start of the_ Pont d'Austerlitz_ at noon, right in front of the _Jardin du Roi_. It only seemed appropriate to meet in front of something named for the man they were preparing to overthrow. Enjolras was making his way down the Sein by around ten, choosing to walk and clear his mind despite the summer heat. He wanted to get there early so that he could, quite literally, smell the roses, _possibly for the last time_, and steel his nerves before his comrades arrived. By the time Enjolras had reached the gardens it was nearly half-past eleven. His leisurely pace had allowed him to fortify his resolve, preparing for the battle to come.

Stepping into the shade of one of the trees that marked the grounds of the garden, Enjolras fished out a handkerchief from the pocket of his crimson jacket. As he mopped his forehead, he remembered giving Éponine a handkerchief just like the one he held in his hand.

_"I promise that I'll be okay_, monsieur_," she had insisted fiercely, repeating her protests again and again. Once or twice he had feared for the safety of his jaw as she nervously flailed her leg._

_"Nonetheless, friends check on one another," he had said, the look in his eyes invitingly open. Éponine gave in, or perhaps she had been too dumbfounded to protest any further. Either way, the look of confused happiness on her face as Enjolras had gingerly bandaged her foot was enough to leave him feeling mute as well._

Enjolras was brought back to the present, unexpectedly feeling eyes boring into the back of his head. He turned around and quickly found the culprit: a young man, sitting alone on one of the garden benches, wearing a tricolor on his dirty tan overcoat. Enjolras smiled crookedly at the sight of the tricolor, the symbol of the revolution.

He pocketed the handkerchief and walked over to the boy, his crooked smirk becoming a confident smile. The already nervous boy looked around frantically, obviously for an escape route. In his wild motions and turning of his head, the floppy hat he had been wearing slipped off and a waterfall of dirty brown waves fell with it. Her body stiffened and the frightened creature stopped searching for a way out. Realizing that her cover was blown and her plan foiled, she slowly turned her head and met Enjolras' smiling blue eyes apologetically, a worried giggle escaping her when she saw his jaw drop and his smile vanish in recognition.

"Éponine!" he whispered wide-eyed. Enjolras closed the rest of the distance in quick, furious strides. He sat down next to the girl and placed his hand on her arm, both out of concern and anger.

"Yes, _monsieur_," she said as sweetly as possible, ignoring how Enjolras tightened his grip on her at her smile, "I've come to help!"

"Oh, have you now?" he retorted, his hand falling away from her arm and balling into a fist in his lap. His knuckles were white and his heart was beating fast. Enjolras didn't give Éponine time to respond.

"I thought you were here, acting as though you gave a damn about this revolution, to be with your Marius. Tell me, Éponine, who is General Lemarque?"

Éponine was prepared. She raised an eyebrow, putting her practice to good use after long days studying the _bourgeois_ women of Paris at café, and sat up straighter in her seat. The feminine ferocity of her gaze and posture was at odds with the masculine clothing she wore. Enjolras held her gaze, impatiently awaiting her answer.

"You know that I am fighting for Marius," she began, speaking as she would to a child. Enjolras jerked his head away angrily, glaring out into the gardens as though it was the fault of the birds, pedestrians, and flowers for his irritation. Éponine reached across to his lap and touched his hand gently, hesitantly, as though he was a rabid animal that may attack her. The light pressure and warmth of her hand on his bare skin surprised him enough to momentarily erase his anger. When he returned his gaze to her face, Éponine continued.

"I am also here to fight for you, _monsieur_."

His heart stopped mid-beat. _What does she mean?_ Enjolras' mind flew in two directions at once and no thought was clear enough to take hold of. His marble face cracked and a softer man showed through for the briefest of moments before he shook his head to clear his mind. Regaining the ability to speak, he asked the only thing he could.

"Why, 'Ponine?" His voice was heavy with disbelief and his blue eyes were full of unasked questions. Enjolras captured her frail hands in his, giving them a light squeeze. He ignored the judging glances and open snickers of the passers-by at the sight of two men sitting in such a pose. Éponine blushed a deep red that matched Enjolras' jacket, tearing her eyes from his to stare at the worn brown fabric of her trousers.

"Because you have been so kind to me, _monsieur_. I haven't any idea why you have offered me your help and looked after me, a piece of garbage from the street, as you have. I need to repay you." She gave him a warning look as he opened his mouth to protest and then continued:

"I'm a poor girl and have almost nothing. Although it isn't worth the chain for your watch, what I do have to give should hopefully make us even. I can pay you with my life."

She ended her declaration with a confident smile, masking her inward turbulence. Éponine's eyes were fiery with the passion and conviction of her confession while Enjolras was left speechless once more. His usually perfectly smooth forehead was creased with the evidence of thought as he attempted to formulate an adequate response. Neither dared to speak, but the silence was broken by the sweet sounds of birds chirping from deeper within the gardens. Unfortunately, as he began to thank the girl, the rest of his speech was interrupted by the familiar sound of his friends calling from down the street.

"Enjolras!" called Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, and Gavroche in tow. The group was still far enough away not to notice that the figure next to their friend was Éponine.

The girl yanked her hands from beneath Enjolras' and quickly hid her hair beneath her floppy hat once more. She finished her work just as the men made it over to the bench. There was a murmur of confusion as the students tried to figure out who the stranger was next to Enjolras. Gavroche gave his sister a little wink, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest in satisfaction. He had helped his sister with her disguise and he was certainly proud of his handiwork

"This 'ere's one of my friends," said the little _gamin_, indicating Éponine with a gruff nod that made him seem far older than eleven.

Éponine, who had been unconsciously holding her breath, let out a sigh of relief as the newcomers' interest was satisfied and they turned their attentions to Enjolras. There was business and war to discuss after all; there was hardly time to exchange social pleasantries with a street urchin. As the rest of _Les Amis de l'ABC_ gathered around the bench, along with a few of Gavroche's actual friends, the hour of fate was approaching.

When the bells chimed twelve o'clock, the only two missing from the group assembled were Grantaire and Marius. However, there was no time to ask of their whereabouts or wait any longer, as the drums of the funeral procession could be heard in the distance. Before standing up, Enjolras gave Éponine's arm a small and unnoticed squeeze of reassurance and appreciation.

"There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes," Enjolras said before leading his friends, his soldiers, towards the _Pont d'Austerlitz_. The beating of their hearts echoed the beating of the steady sound of the drums as they walked bravely to face their foe.

* * *

A shot rang out above the sound of the crowd and the procession, followed by screams of panic. For one brief moment it was as though time itself had stopped and people of Paris were frozen, out of fear, out of shock, and out of excitement. Suddenly, as though everyone in the crowd exhaled at once, the moment of silence and inaction was shattered by sounds of more gunfire. From their end of the bridge, the group of students could make out a fellow congregation of revolutionaries beginning to skirmish with the national guardsmen who were accompanying the body of General Lemarque.

"The time is now! The day is here!" cried Enjolras, pulling his pistol from its holster and raising it in the air. His soul was soaring and his blood was pounding in his ears. Never before had he looked more like a statue carved by Michelangelo than he did in that moment. Éponine gazed up at his shining face in wonder and admiration, immobilized by fear and confusion. Shouts of approval came from his friends as and other revolutionaries and citizens within earshot.

"_Vive la France! Vive la France!_"

"To the barricades!"

* * *

**A/N: **_Sorry it took so long, guys! It took me forever to finally be satisfied with what I had written enough to upload it and show you beautiful people. It's a tad longer than usual, but only by a little. It's also heavily É/E, but with purpose. I also think I dropped my first cuss word - wooo! Anyway, the usual: questions, comments, concerns are welcome and appreciated, and I've already got Chapter 6 started. I won't promise anything quick on that one either though, 'cause it's kinda pretty important. It may take just a bit. I deeply appreciate each and every one of you, have a pleasant day!_


	6. Chapter 6

6

_Les Amis de l'ABC _ran as quickly as they could back to the Café Musain. The burning of their muscles was easily overlooked by their frantic and childish excitement. Éponine had been led by Enjolras who had grabbed her hand before running off behind Courfeyrac from the _Pont d'Austerlitz_. She couldn't determine if her breathlessness was due to their fast pace or that he was still holding her hand when they came to a much appreciated stop.

Éponine cleared her throat pointedly and as manly as possible, tugging her hand lightly from Enjolras', afraid that one of the students had seen. Thankfully, they had not. Everyone was far too busy running around, inside and out of the tavern, hurriedly making their wartime preparations. Enjolras hardly noticed the change either; his dream was about to be realized. All thoughts were turned completely to France and his responsibilities for the first time since Éponine had kissed his cheek. Nothing else mattered but his men and the orders he gave.

Grantaire sauntered out of the Café, a bottle of wine already in hand despite it being only two o'clock in the afternoon. Those who had already begun to search for supplies were torn: should they stay and watch the argument that was sure to be entertaining, or should they follow orders? Most chose the latter. Bahorel and Lesgle hung back, pretending to be busy fixing each other's tricolors.

"Ah, so it lives! And here I was, Grantaire," began Enjolras threateningly, "worrying that you had finally drank yourself to death. How kind of you to show your face."

"Don't get your trousers in a twist there, Enjolras. I am here for the _important_ part, am I not?" The glare Enjolras had been giving Grantaire increased tenfold at his speech. Grantaire cracked a smile and crossed the remainder of the little square to clap Enjolras on the back and hand him his bottle of wine.

"Drink up now, while you still can."

The anger remained on Enjolras' face for only one moment longer before his expression softened to its usual stoniness. With a small chuckle and an incredulous shake of his head, Enjolras pulled Grantaire into a fleeting hug. The look on the drunkard's face when Enjolras broke the embrace to continue his work was heart breaking.

* * *

The little square in front of the Café Musain looked as though it had been overrun by worker ants. The children of the revolution were running, throwing, drinking, and laughing as though they had limitless energy and strength. The members of _Les Amis _were drawing their motivation from Enjolras, whose inspirational and stern words were echoing between the buildings every minute or so, and whose face seemed to be shining as though it was a lantern in the dark.

A man had volunteered to get information from behind enemy lines and, although none of the students had ever seen him before, Enjolras permitted him to leave. A heavy load seemed to have been lifted from their shoulders with the knowledge that they would be one step ahead of the foe.

The _gamine_, disguised as a _gamin_, slunk unnoticed to a doorway of an empty apartment and watched the barricade rise, like a wooden sea monster from an uneven and dirty expanse of stone ocean.

"We need as much furniture as you can throw down!" called Courfeyrac to the ladies in the apartments and businesses above. They were quick to oblige, both out of their own excitement for the coming revolution and in response to his handsome face.

Chairs, bedframes, mattresses, and even a piano or two came flying from windows, doorways, and roof tops. Éponine flinched at each loud crash, betraying her femininity. Lucky for her, the only soul aware of her hiding spot was a matted orange tabby cat which was winding between her legs, seeking any and all attention it could receive. Éponine leaned her back against the worn wood of the doorframe and slid down into a sitting position, pulling the pitiful animal into her lap. It let out a soft _mew_ of protest, but its discontentment was soon replaced by the sound of purring.

Éponine let herself get lost in her thoughts as she petted the cat absentmindedly. Where was Marius? _With Cosette_. Then there is no hope? _No, he was never mine to lose and he'll never be mine_. Then why are you here? _There isn't any reason left to live_, she began to think, but that still small voice inside her head disagreed. Éponine dug deeper. _I am here to help _monsieur _Enjolras; I owe him._ Again, she was met with inward disapproval and a feeling in her gut that it wasn't the whole truth.

She shook her head, irritated. What was the point in looking for a reason to be there? In a few hours she was sure to be dead, reason or no. However, the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach to admit _God __knows __what _persisted, and her gentle caresses became heavy-handed swipes. The tabby hissed in objectionand leapt away, seeking refuge across the way with Grantaire.

Sighing heavily, Éponine leaned her head against the wood behind her back with a dull thud. The barricade was growing exponentially. As its size increased, so did the sense of purpose and pride that was so thick in the air on the _Rue de l__a Chanverrerie_ that it was almost tangible. She let her eyes wander in search of Marius, hoping that he had shown up while she wasn't looking. Instead her eyes fell on the man in a crimson jacket.

Enjolras was running in every direction. He was busy lending a hand or asking for things to be done, joking with his friends, and scolding the idle Grantaire and Bahorel. A thin layer of sweat had appeared on his chiseled features in the heat of the summer. His shaggy waves had long ago been pushed to one side.

Éponine's pulse sped up. In his passion and excitement, the man was absolutely beautiful. It was not in the same way that Marius was handsome; this was a raw and masculine beauty, whereas Marius was the kind of reserved and gentlemanly attractiveness that was conventional and to be expected. Enjolras was the statue of David come to life. Éponine smiled almost imperceptibly as he climbed atop the nearly completed barricade and surveyed the street beyond. In those moments, he was glorious.

He felt her eyes on him again and looked over at Éponine's hiding spot in the doorway. The girl-man gave a quiet squeak and averted her eyes as quickly as possible. She groaned inwardly as she heard Enjolras climbing down the barricade. She stood clumsily, hitting her elbow hard against the side of the building. Hitting her funny bone only served to increase Éponine's embarrassment.

"_Mon Dieu_! Are you alright?" Enjolras asked with a chuckle, standing in front of her with his hands planted squarely on his hips in mock judgment. She cradled her tingling arm in the other and bit her lip.

"Of course I'm alright. I _am _a man after all," she answered, making her voice as deep and sarcastic as it could be.

The tension was broken and the awkward friends laughed at her feeble attempt at humour. Enjolras was happy to hear an honest laugh come from the girl. It was a pleasing sound; not gruff or menacing like the laugh he had heard on the bridge the night prior.

"I am glad that you are here, Éponine," he whispered when their laughter was over. He made sure there was no one in their corner of the street to listen in. She made no reply but grabbed his hand, cut and blistered from moving broken furniture and loading muskets, and gave it a small squeeze. Her brown eyes met his and she thought that she could read something deeper behind his usual stoic look. A shiver went down her spine.

"Enjolras!" called Combeferre, obviously distressed. The student of philosophy waved a hand anxiously, signally that he needed to speak with Enjolras. There was a great commotion by the entrance to the finished barricade.

The leader of _Les Amis _ran quickly to his friends, letting Éponine's hand slip from his without a second glance. She watched him go regretfully. The man they had sent out earlier to learn the enemy's plan was back just as the sun set. Éponine took to the shadows and ran out into the streets of Paris in the direction of 55 _Rue Plumet_.

* * *

It was Javert. Gavroche exposed him and Enjolras had him thrown into the tavern. The Café was serving as a makeshift hospital, and now a jail. The people would decide the fate of Inspector Javert. In the excitement of the discovery, no one had noticed the absence of the mute newcomer, dressed in baggy brown trousers and a floppy grey hat, and the aftermath of the exposé had covered his reentrance as well.

Enjolras was pacing like a wild beast in a cage. His expression was blank but his eyes were murderous. _This set back could prove fatal_. The sound of boots on pavement roused him from his morbid thoughts. When the understanding of the sound and what it meant sank in, he stopped dead in his tracks. The anger in his eyes was replaced with determination and fear.

"To arms!"

The barricade was alive again, and its little worker ants scurried to find their pistols and carbines. Marius was still absent and Grantaire tried his damnedest to hold his gun steady in one hand while holding his wine in the other. He managed to only spill a few drops, but his aim was still questionable. Gavroche grabbed a musket that was far too big for him and turned to look for his sister. Finding Éponine standing near the entrance to their fortress, he picked up a pistol and ran over to her excitedly.

"Take this, aim it at their heads, and kill some fuckin' soldiers!" instructed Gavroche before he scampered off again, swinging his too-large gun wildly.

As _Les Amis de l'ABC _took their places on the towering wooden structure, their only defense against the guns and canons of the French National Guard, Éponine climbed in with them. She held her pistol in her frail and shaking hands, unsure of herself and of her future. Her mouth was set in a grim line and her thoughts were on Marius, whom she had seen only minutes before. She had found him sulking in the garden of 55 _Rue Plumet_, lamenting the sudden disappearance of his darling Cosette. It was all she could do to find it within herself to speak to him, but she had known that it was necessary.

_"_Monsieur_," she had said, disguising her voice as best she could. The sound startled the boy out of his reflections and he looked up from his seat beneath a tree. He hadn't recognized her._

_ "_Monsieur_," she repeated, "I believe your friends are waiting for you. At the barricade on the _Rue de la Chanverrerie._"_

_ She walked away when he nodded in understanding, turning her back to hide her tears._

"Who goes there?" called an army officer, his booming voice echoing down the narrow street.

"French Revolution!" Enjolras shouted in response. And then it began.

The National Guard fired first, but every bullet fell short and only hit their sturdy wall. The children of the barricade retaliated fiercely.

"Take that, you bastards!" yelled Bahorel proudly. He had killed the first National Guardsman. The boys hooted and hollered in support and three more were felled by Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and the doe-eyed Prouvaire.

Blood was flowing across the vast sea of pavement. It did not take long for students and their supporters to be wounded by bullets or debris; several died in the first few minutes of battle. Screams of agony and the cries of men who were caught by death were heard ringing through Paris from the barricades throughout the city. The smoke of gun fire and the torches illuminating the tiny battle field was billowing and mingling in the air, like an early morning fog.

Éponine was nearly frozen with fear. Montparnasse had taught her of guns and the art of killing and she racked her brain as best she could to remember what he had said. Who'd have thought that he would ever come in handy? _If I come out of this alive I'll be sure to thank you, 'Parnasse_. She looked around in panic as the grunts and curses of a soldier fell on her ears.

"They're climbing the barricade!" Gavroche screamed, coming face-to-face with a panting National Guardsman.

Éponine's eyes swiveled to the front of her, looking out over the wall of furniture. Sure enough, there was a soldier who was running towards her section of the barricade. She took aim with her pistol, screwed her eyes shut, and fired her first shot. She quickly reopened her eyes and smiled wide in satisfaction. The bullet hit home and burrowed deep within the poor bastard's lower abdomen. A dark red circle formed around the hole almost instantly, blood seeping through the white and blue of his uniform. The dying man fell to the ground in agony and was trampled by his comrades who were inundating the barricade.

Gavroche let out another scream. This one was wordless but his terror spoke volumes. Éponine's heart stopped as she realized that his gun had misfired and the soldier with which he had been grappling raised his bayonet to spear the little boy.

Before she could move however, the snarling man let out a yelp of pain and dropped his weapon. A bullet had pierced his right eye. The lifeless body toppled backwards and his head hit the cobblestones with a sickening crunch. Gavroche, who had been rooted to his spot atop an old chest-of-drawers, climbed with the speed and agility of a spider from the top of the barricade. Éponine turned to see who had saved her little brother. Her heart sung in her chest and her stomach did a flip when her eyes fell on Marius, who still held his gun in the air.

The young man tore off his blue jacket and ran to the centre of the wooden wall. Grabbing a barrel of gun powder and a torch, he half climbed, half sprinted to the top to meet the onslaught of soldiers. She made a movement to go after him. _He could die_.

Before throwing her pistol to the ground, Éponine shot at two soldiers who had crawled over a piano in front of her, bayonets raised. When she was sure that they had been killed, or at least slowed in their pursuit, she began to climb in the direction of Marius. He had a gun aimed at the back of his head. Just as she reached him, Éponine heard a terrible scream.

Looking quickly down at the right side of the barricade, Éponine's stomach fell to her feet at the sight of Enjolras being attacked by two men. One had just dug his bayonet into his left thigh. She had to make a choice, and fast. She looked back at Marius and knew that she had to save him. With one last glance at Enjolras, who had fallen to the ground, Éponine stepped between Marius and the National Guardsmen's carbine. Her heart was breaking.

* * *

A shot was fired. The bullet passed through the mysterious newcomer's hand and passed into his chest, just above his heart. The shot was followed by a cry of pain and then silence. The fighting had stopped; all eyes were trained on Marius.

"Get back or I'll blow us all to Hell."

"You wouldn't, you'll take yourself with it!"

"And myself with it," Marius said, low and menacing. He lowered the torch he held in his right hand to the barrel of gun powder in his left.

The boy's eyes had closed and his body had slipped painfully from the barricade to the street. He heard the officer call for a retreat and smiled, his lips turning blue from the exertion and loss of blood. His hat fell to the ground as he slumped over, lying with his cheek to the pavement. It was Éponine.

She felt tiny rain drops falling on her head and onto the stinging hole in her hand. _I'm dying, mama. Will you miss me?_

"Éponine!"

Strong, warm hands were cradling her fragile and cold face, wiping the rain, hair, and blood from her forehead. With difficulty she opened her eyes and saw Enjolras' pained face inches from her own. He slowly moved her into a sitting position, stopping every time she winced, leaning her shoulders against the barricade. She smiled again innocently and held up her wounded hand. The blood flowed down her arm and pooled in the elbow of her shirtsleeve.

"What've you done?" he asked, his voice thick with thinly veiled emotion. _She can't die. If she dies, I've failed her._

The wounded girl's eyes fluttered shut again. She heard the thudding of frantic footfalls and the warmth on her face disappeared. Éponine knitted her brows in protest. She heard Enjolras calling for Joly, the medical student of the group. It warmed her slowing heart to know that he was trying to save her, despite her decision to help Marius over him.

"'Ponine?" asked a new voice. It was Marius, who had come to kneel in front of her broken body. The concern was obvious on his face.

"It'll be okay, _monsieur_. You're alive and my duty is done."

Éponine opened her eyes as she spoke, not wanting to miss her last chance to see his face, to study his brown curls, to memorize his endearing freckles. Marius insisted that she would be alright, but she held a bloodied finger to his lips. He bowed his head and looked at the hole in her shoulder in silence. The blood was flowing freely down her borrowed shirt. Éponine's eyes closed again as she slumped forward and laid her head against Marius' knee.

"Marius," she said weakly, lifting her head, "I think I was a little bit in love with you."

A silent semi-circle of revolutionaries had come to stand around the pair. No one spoke and hardly anyone dared breathe. Prouvaire, ever the sentimental poet, took his hat from his head and placed it over his heart reverently. The rain increased and Marius moved to shelter the dying creature. She shook her head as forcefully as she could muster, her usually pale skin growing whiter with each movement.

"A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now, _monsieur_." There was no humour or pain in her voice; she merely stated it matter-of-factly.

Éponine looked around for Enjolras. She found him on the edge of the assembled group of men, his arms folded over his chest and his stony face unreadable. The blood was dripping down his left leg from where the soldier had stabbed him and Joly was insisting he come inside the tavern to have it bandaged, but he didn't even acknowledge him. He kept his deep blue eyes trained on Éponine.

"_Monsieur_," she said, meeting Enjolras' gaze unsteadily. Her vision was becoming fuzzy. The look in his eyes was sheepish, as though he were afraid of finding death in her face.

"I'm a little bit in love with you too, you know." With that, her eyes closed a final time and her body fell to the cobbled street.

A single tear escaped from Enjolras' eyes and blended in with the rain and blood on his granite cheek.

* * *

**A/N:** _Wow, that was fast! Look, guns! The f-bomb! LOVE! Don't hate me? WE AREN'T DONE YET! I realize that this isn't 100% "brick" timeline, but I needed to change things around. __Review and edit if and when necessary._


	7. Chapter 7

7

_"I'm a little bit in love with you too, you know."_

Éponine's last words were playing in Enjolras' weary mind again and again and again, as though those were the only words known to man. His single tear turned into two, then five, and then twenty, and his broad shoulders shook like leaves in a breeze. She was the first to fall upon this barricade and her death had reduced the marble man to tears and choking sobs. _How will it feel when Combeferre dies? When Grantaire is shot? _Another wave of silent tears crashed over Enjolras at the thought of their eyes, glassy and unseeing with death, staring into nothingness for the rest of eternity. It would be his fault. Éponine's death was his fault.

Joly placed a firm and reassuring hand on his leader's shoulder. Enjolras covered Joly's hand with his own briefly before meeting the medical student's questioning brown eyes. Looking away, his gaze resting on Éponine's broken body once more, Enjolras nodded in silent and dejected approval. He noted with distaste that Marius was still sitting beside her, his hand resting hesitantly on her head. The doctor-in-training broke through the semi-circle of bruised and battle beaten men to examine the body of the valiant _gamine_.

Kneeling down, disregarding the puddle of blood in which he had sat, Joly placed his index and middle fingers on the side of Éponine's limp neck, searching for a pulse. Enjolras looked away, unwilling to watch her death become final. His gaze swept across the ransacked little street. Where there were only happy memories a day before, there were an ever increasing number of ghosts rising up to take their places in the dark corners of the square. The tiny rivulets of watered down blood converging to meet in the great lake of opalescent red, the abandoned bodies of the enemy, the shattered skeletons of so many kind peoples' furniture: every image was burned to the inside of Enjolras' eyelids, down to the tiniest detail. He turned and began to limp away.

"Enjolras!" gasped Joly, his tone a mixture of delight and confusion. Enjolras turned mechanically back around and reentered the thinning group.

Joly held a tiny mirror to Éponine's mouth, a tool physicians use to check for the presence of breath. The mirror was fogging; Éponine was breathing. _Éponine is alive_.

"Someone, bring her quickly into the Café. If she is to be saved, action needs to be taken _now_," Joly commanded, pocketing the mirror and running towards the makeshift hospital to prepare.

Marius was confused and unsure of what to do, removing his hand from its spot on her head and letting it fall to his side, limp and useless. Who was the job of carrying the fragile girl to Joly going to fall to? _Clearly not Pontmercy_. Disregarding the shooting pain in his left leg Enjolras strode quickly and determinedly and, stooping down, lifted the girl into his arms. Turning slowly, he started the suddenly long walk to the Café. Éponine groaned softly in pain and discomfort but Enjolras made no move to shift her position, afraid that any sudden movement may prove disastrous.

"Y-you must be gentler with her, Enjolras," insisted Marius, trailing too close behind. "If you aren't more c-careful, she may d-die!"

"And suddenly you are an expert on _mademoiselle _Thénardier, are you?" Enjolras asked bitingly, refusing to turn and acknowledge the man. Marius merely sputtered in reply. They were almost to the tavern, Éponine was almost safe. When she was in Joly's care, then he would take care of Pontmercy.

With only a few yards left until the doorway Enjolras stumbled, his boot catching on the same loose cobblestone which had torn Éponine's foot a few days prior. The unexpected movement jostled the girl, causing her to cry out loudly at the shooting tendrils of red hot pain coursing through her veins. Enjolras regained his balance and tensed, unsure of how to move to help the screaming girl. His wounded leg began to tremble from the effort it took to stand as he was.

Marius hesitated only a moment more before jumping in front of Enjolras and situating his arms beneath Éponine. He blushed a light pink when his hand accidentally brushed against her breasts and made an awkward apology, earning him a murderous look from Enjolras. Marius finished the job which Enjolras had started, stumbling into the Café with the now sedate girl in his arms.

"Quickly, place her on the bar," Joly instructed. His usually easy going attitude had been replaced by a strong and commanding air and Marius obeyed immediately.

The terrified boy crossed the room and, cradling Éponine's head, laid her gently on the bar. The loss of warmth and change of position was enough to draw her back from the doorway of Death. Gaspin in pain at the sensation of her wounded shoulder making contact with the unyielding wood of the bar, Éponine's opened her eyes and looked around frantically. Enjolras ran unsteadily from where he had been resting at the doorway but stopped short when he saw the smile on Éponine's face. The smile was for Marius.

"_Monsieur_… am I in… Heaven?" she asked breathlessly, the smile becoming a grimace of pain when she tried to laugh.

"Shh, 'Ponine," cooed Marius, "Joly will take care of you; you'll live longer than I!"

Éponine's dull eyes regained their usual sparkle. _He is excited that I will live. Perhaps he does love me after all! _She slowly reached up to stroke Marius' freckled cheek with her good hand. He recoiled, but only Enjolras noticed. Éponine was too lost in his dark eyes to be aware of anything else, not even Enjolras. He was watching with a growing knot in his stomach. Suddenly, her eyes grew to the size of saucers.

"_Monsieur_ Marius… Cosette left… letter for you. In my… pocket."

Timidly, Marius began reaching for her pants pocket but Éponine shook her head. He then reached for her coat pocket, but she intercepted his hand with speed and agility that shocked the three men. Shakily, she guided his hand to the breast pocket of her shirt. If she had not lost so much blood, her cheeks would have been rosy. Instead they simply returned to their normal colour from the paper-white they had been moments before. Marius made quick work of getting the letter, thanked the girl, and took a few steps back. His eyes were greedily taking in the sight of Cosette's beloved handwriting.

Éponine was confused. _He still loves her. _She tried to sit up but only made it so far as to move her right shoulder, the injured one, before emitting a whimper of agony. Her hand fell back to the bar with a dull thud and her eyes rolled back in her head. Éponine had lost consciousness again. Joly was finished with his preparations and barked an order to Marius and Enjolras to leave. They would not want to see this.

Marius tore his eyes from the folded paper in his hands to take one more lingering look at the bloodied body lying in front of him, at the girl who had saved his life without thanks, before brushing past Enjolras and leaving the Café. His thoughts were already on Cosette, Enjolras could tell. He had the far off look in his eyes of one who was somewhere else; somewhere beautiful.

His assumption was spot-on. Marius was on his way to find Gavroche to ask him to deliver a letter to his lady love's newly acquired second address. The man completely forgot to tell the _gamin_ that his sister was still alive.

Enjolras was rooted to his spot in the middle of the Café. He looked around as though he were in a daze, taking in the tableau before him. The blood of his men, his _friends_, was covering the tables and floor from where Joly had hurriedly patched their wounds as best he could. There was a dead body lying stiff and sightless on a table in the corner. Enjolras hadn't the heart to look closer to see who it was; he was certain that he would retch if he did.

The responsibility he felt for these people's lives was like an enormous weight bearing down on him, and every time he looked over at Éponine's still form that weight doubled. His eyes drifted from the _gamine_ to Inspector Javert and he cursed him inwardly. His dishonest blood was dripping from the wound in his head – a very sizable gash to which Enjolras could put his name proudly – onto the floor of the tavern and mingling with the noble blood of his friends and followers. Bile rose in his throat. Had he been a disrespectful man, Enjolras felt sure that he would have spit upon the snake.

"Enjolras," Joly said quietly, putting a hand on his upper arm, "I advise you to leave. You don't want to hear this; she will be in pain."

He nodded silently, returning from his reverie as though he were waking from a dream. His sandy eyebrows drew together and disrupted the smoothness of his forehead. It would kill him to see what Joly was about to do. The tongs and knife he had set on the bar by Éponine's head promised to bring enough pain by themselves, but Enjolras' eyes lingered longest on the piece of iron Joly had heating over the fireplace in the back of the bar. The knot in his stomach did a somersault.

And yet he couldn't find the strength within him to move. Enjolras returned his gaze to Éponine's seemingly lifeless form. The blood from the hole in her shoulder had dyed the entire front of her disguise and her hair was clinging to her forehead from both the rain and the sweat from her rising fever. Her lips parted in silent pain and her placid expression was clouded with distress for one brief second before she fell deeper into her state of unconsciousness and her face became as smooth as stone. In that moment, not only was the _gamine_ an embodiment of all that Enjolras was fighting for, she also became a manifestation of what he had helped to cause: a war-torn France and misplaced dedication. She could not possibly have been more beautiful to him than in that moment.

In three quick, painful strides he crossed the room and stood by the bar. Joly, who had been beginning to tie a tourniquet just above Éponine's injured hand, stepped back. _Some things can wait_, he thought. The medical student pretended as though he had dropped something necessary for what he was about to do and bent to pick it up.

Enjolras took Éponine's left hand in his own and brought it to his lips. When he heard Joly cough pointedly, signaling that he was about to stand up, Enjolras stopped and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. The kiss was reverent, chaste, and passionate all at once. It was a promise to fight for her; that he would not let her sacrifice have been in vain. It was willing her to live.

He stood quickly, feeling Joly's questioning eyes on his back, and straightened his ruined black vest embarrassedly. Turning on his heel Enjolras limped dignifiedly out of the Café, his new sense of purpose pushing against the weight of the responsibility and inevitable defeat. Had he stayed a moment longer, Enjolras would have noticed that Éponine's mouth had twitched. The bloodied corners pulled upwards into a weak smile.

"Marius," she whispered dreamily. She was trying with all of her might to swim out of the sea of unconsciousness. Just as she saw the shore, there was a searing pain in her hand and then it all went black.

* * *

**A/N: **_Guys, I'm sick. Like, nasty sick. And I'm on medicine that makes me fall off of my bed in the middle of the night. And I wrote this on my way to Virginia today with my mom, while on this medicine stuff, and I'm sure none of it makes sense. But my beta reader, Alex, is a beautiful soul and tells me that it's good enough to post so I'm doing it anyway! I tried to upload this three times as Chapter 8 before I realized that, no, it was only 7. Oh my God, I quit. Bye._

_P.S. I'm a page into Chapter 8 already, no worries. I'll update soon._


	8. Chapter 8

8

Grantaire took a long swig of his wine in an attempt at clearing his brain. His heart hurt and the wine was beginning to go to his head. In all honesty, Grantaire pretended to be drunk more often than he genuinely was. His "drunk" was beginning to be sincere.

_It's all to get to Enjolras_, he though sadly. Another swig. _It's always for Enjolras._ He finished off the bottle and sat down on the barricade with a loud sigh. The heavy rain was slowly to an annoying drizzle and the children of the barricade were moving from beneath the eaves of the surrounding buildings to sit atop their fortress once more.

"What's wrong, Grantaire?" asked Lesgle cheerfully. Although he had a nasty gash on his forehead from the butt of a Guardsmen's carbine, he was being optimistic. Sickeningly optimistic, actually. _What an unlucky fool_, thought Grantaire with a soft chuckle.

"Oh nothing, Lesgle, nothing is the matter at all!" His smile did not quite reach his dark eyes. "I love to see my friends die for a lost cause."

Lesgle's thick eyebrows shot up in shock and offense. Grantaire had said it loud enough so that it reached Enjolras' ears on the other side of the square. All eyes turned from Grantaire to Enjolras and back again, as though _Les Amis_ were watching an invisible tennis match. Enjolras was busy moving gun powder into the tavern and out of the rain with Marius and Courfeyrac, and the two men with whom he was working were also eyeing him cautiously. Enjolras' broad shoulders stiffened and he paused briefly mid-step, but he made no response. Grantaire's lip curled in dissatisfaction.

If there was one thing in which Grantaire held all of his hopes and beliefs, it was Enjolras. Not God, not the bottom of a wine bottle, not even himself; only Enjolras, the fearless leader. He acted out to get the attention he craved from his idol like a small child and, more often than not, it worked. Grantaire hated it when it did not.

Hoisting himself up from his seat on the barricade, Grantaire carefully made his way across the little street. He threw the empty bottle onto the pavement. The fragile green glass shattered against the cobblestone, the shards floating for a moment in the puddle in which the bottle had landed before settling to the bottom of the murky liquid. The loud noise succeeded in drawing the attention of Enjolras, who turned around with the last barrel of gun powder in his arms. He had a calm smile on his face and the beauty of it softened Grantaire's frustration a bit, but not enough for him to back down now. Marius and Courfeyrac exchanged a sheepish glance but did not move from their spot next to the Café, just in case.

"You should try and not drink as much as you usually do, Grantaire. No one likes it when children throw tantrums."

"Then perhaps, dear Enjolras," retorted Grantaire, raising an eyebrow mockingly. The alcohol was giving him courage and a bothersome case of the hiccups. "You should also stop moping about. Your sad eyes shan't make you better than our Pontmercy."

The moment immediately following the end of Grantaire's speech, Enjolras' mouth hung open like a church door. His immaculate feathers had been ruffled one too many times and his well-practiced self-control was beginning to crack. Enjolras set the barrel down and undid his cravat. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders once more. _I just want to speak with Éponine_, he thought, glancing into the Café through the broken side window by which he was standing. He could see that Joly was almost done with his work on the poor girl.

Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest, following Enjolras' gaze. A jealous lump formed in his throat when he saw that Enjolras was looking at Éponine. It was time to act out again, to reclaim his attention.

"So you really _are_ lusting after the little _gamine_, eh?" Grantaire asked, relishing in how quickly Enjolras fixed his cornflower blues eyes on him once more. His gaze, and the wine, emboldened him.

"You may want to give up on her, Enjolras. She may say she loves you, but we all know it is Marius she truly fancies. Perhaps she just felt sorry for your lonely soul, or wanted you for your money. I'm sure little Gavroche would know! Why don't we ask him?"

Grantaire turned around himself in a circle, looking for the boy. He was nowhere in sight. Bahorel remarked that he had seen Gavroche leaving the barricade almost an hour ago. Deep down, he was glad that Gavroche was not there. Grantaire adored the little _gamin _and was ashamed of how he was acting; he didn't want the boy to see him like this. He couldn't stop now though.

"Where is Gavroche?" Enjolras demanded, his displeasure evident. His commanding tone was weary around the edges.

"Ask Marius, he spoke to him last," answered Bahorel. He was lounging against the barricade and cleaning his gun lazily, attempting to look disinterested. The eagerness in his voice betrayed him however.

All eyes turned to Marius questioningly. It seemed that the students were thinking the same thing: _Why would he know? _Marius fiddled with the buttons on his undone vest, his eyes flitting between Enjolras and Grantaire uneasily.

"I sent him to deliver a letter for me. To my darling Cosette!" he explained, opening his palms in front of him as though he was making an offering. He knew the romantic and idealistic _Amis_ like Prouvaire, Lesgle, and Fueilly would understand, and perhaps even his best friend, Courfeyrac, but he was worried most about Enjolras. He chose to plead with the emotions beneath the marble.

"I did not want to die without so much as a letter to my beloved. I did not live until she was in my life, Enjolras. Éponine had been keeping the letter with her address from me this whole time, anyway!" Enjolras' ears perked up at the mention of her name, but his face remained stony and his body still.

"Besides, she could not know what love is. Had she not been so childish and given me the –" Marius didn't have a chance to finish.

Enjolras had moved as though he were uninjured, as though Joly had not just finished stiching his wound. His rage numbed him and his weariness and pain left him vulnerable, human. Before anyone, even Enjolras himself, was aware of what was happening, he had moved to stand in front of Marius. Rational thought stood on hold. The acceptance of his feelings for Éponine had changed him, had softened the granite from which he was made and the events of the evening thus far had temporarily broken his moral compass.

Marius' brown eyes were the size of moons and he held his hands up as though trying to tell Enjolras that he was unarmed. Grantaire watched, a small smile playing on his lips, mesmerized by the glory and hilarity of it all. Enjolras balled up his right hand into a tight fist, grabbed Marius roughly by his loose navy cravat, and took a swing.

His fist made contact with Marius' left cheek with a loud thud and Marius' cheek began to bruise almost immediately. The sound seemed to echo through the _Rue de l__a Chanverrerie_ in the shocked silence that followed. Enjolras dropped Marius' cravat and bowed to him, a gentlemanly gesture that was juxtaposed with the blow he had just delivered. He cleared his throat, sense and rationality returning. He was not apologetic and knew that standing up for whatever it was he was protecting was the right thing to do, he just couldn't quite place his finger on what the thing was.

"That was for jeopardizing the safety of a young boy, and for insulting a woman in my presence." Marius nodded, but hadn't comprehended a single word.

Courfeyrac took one look at Marius' confused face and Enjolras' agitated straightening of his vest – a bad habit he seemed to have – and began to laugh. He doubled over and held his side, a picture of pure enjoyment. Feuilly took off his flat cap and slapped his knee with it, and Bahorel joined in with a deep, throaty chuckle. The laughter spread like fire: Combeferre, Prouvaire, Lesgle, even Marius and Enjolras were affected. They laughed at the unexpectedness of the situation, at the reality of their position behind the barricade, and at themselves for all getting so worked up over a mole hill when the mountain of the revolution loomed before them.

Grantaire was the last to join, his mind still focusing on the memory of Enjolras swinging at Marius, his eyes flashing hard rage and soft love simultaneously. A love which Grantaire recognized was for Éponine, even if Enjolras was unwilling to admit to it. _He was never mine to lose_. Grantaire began to laugh then too, but it was not the same happy, crazed sound of the other students. It was dark and stoic; a laugh that sounded more like a sigh.

The students' revelry was interrupted by a shout from Feuilly. He was on the watch and had seen a man in an army uniform approaching the barricade.

"Don't shoot!" the old man called back, his voice a loud whisper. "I come here as a volunteer."

Feuilly looked down at Enjolras for guidance. The leader sobered up quickly and nodded, making his way towards the barricade and forgetting the last of the gun powder. The rain had stopped long ago. Feuilly signaled for the old man to come into the barricade reluctantly. All sounds of laughter and feelings of light-heartedness died away when the stranger in the enemy uniform crawled through the entrance.

Grantaire was the first to draw his pistol and press it against the new comer's head. He was trying to redeem himself and stifled a nervous hiccup rising in his throat with a gruff cough. The rest of the students flocked around the man, pointing their guns in his face, protecting their "lost cause" as a mother bear would look after her cubs.

"Why should we trust you?"

"See that man in that Café? He's a spy!"

"Calls 'imself Javert."

"He's going to get it, too!"

The stranger's eyes widened at the mention of Javert, but he made no attempt to defend himself or to lash out. The students poked and prodded, searching his person for any weapons other than the musket he held in his hands. They couldn't be too careful.

"Don't kill 'im! I know 'im." shouted Gavroche, climbing down from the balcony of the Café Musain. He had been trying to take a nap after his frantic run through the city to deliver Marius' letter, but hadn't gotten a chance. The commotion of the argument below had kept him awake.

Grantaire felt a pang of shame and sympathy when he realized that Gavroche had seen everything he had done and all that Marius had said about his sister. His already aching heart began to hurt worse.

The look of surprise and relief at seeing Gavroche was plastered on the faces of every student. Enjolras looked down at Gavroche's young face as he moved to stand beside him. The boy met his gaze with pleading eyes that were wise beyond their years. Enjolras signaled for the men to lower their weapons. Whatever speech he was about to make however, was drowned out by a frantic cry from the stranger.

"Enemy marksmen on the roofs!"

He raised the musket he carried with speed and agility that were uncommon for a man his age. The shot he fired hit the soldier, who had been crouching on the roof of the Café Musain. He fell to the ground with a thud, followed by another sniper who was felled by Grantaire.

When the dust settled, Enjolras patted Grantaire on the back for his good work and ordered the men back to their posts. Combeferre was busy shouting about keeping their eyes to the roofs and their guns at the ready while _Les Amis _scrambled about with new and excited fervor. Enjolras stayed where he was in front of the white haired man, his appreciation written on his hard features.

"How can we thank you, _monsieur_?" he asked, resting his hand respectfully on the stranger's shoulder.

"Give me the spy, Javert."

* * *

**A/N: **_My cold is almost all gone! Woohoo. Anyway, to business: this chapter is pretty E/R heavy, but it's all for a reason. You'll see in a chapter or two what I mean. I apologize for the punching scene, but it's just something I seriously wanted to happen and I figured, well, it's my fic so why not. Tell me what you think of it though! I tried to justify it so that it was as in character as possible, but perhaps that didn't quite work. I dunno, you tell me! I'll update soon, I promise. Going on a road trip tomorrow, so that means I'll have four hours to write Chapter 9. Have a great day!_


	9. Chapter 9

9

"Enjolras!" Joly called from in front of the tavern. He was wiping fresh blood from his hands on a rag that looked suspiciously like his cravat but his expression was one of hope.

Turning quickly, his blonde waves swishing about his face like a lion's mane, Enjolras' hand slipped from the stranger's shoulder. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten anything in the world but Joly. At the sight of the blood on the rag and on Joly's once white sleeves, his heart fell into his stomach, but his spirits lifted at the sight of the smile on the medical student's face. He made two steps towards the Café before stopping and turning back with a curt chuckle.

"Forgive me, _monsieur_. I am forgetting my manners," Enjolras said when he was again facing the old man. He bowed his head respectfully before continuing. "I will give you the traitor Javert."

Enjolras motioned for the man to follow him into the Café before resuming his nervous walk to the now empty doorway. Joly had not lingered for too long; there was still work to be done and blood to be cleaned. The man followed without a word, his eyes darting to faces of the gathered men as though looking for someone he knew. _Is he perhaps someone's father?_

* * *

There was the report of a single gunshot in the alleyway behind the Café Musain. Enjolras closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks, waves of relief lapping at the weary shore of his mind. He shut his eyes briefly and rested his head against the broken door behind which he was standing at the top of the barricade. The stranger had saved him from the snipers and from killing the spy. As strange as it may sound, Enjolras was not fond of killing. It was merely out of necessity and desire to see a new sun rise on the horizon of Tomorrow that he raised his pistol at the enemy, and shooting Javert would have ripped his conscience horribly.

Opening his eyes once more, Enjolras stared into the abyss that was the _Rue de la Chanverrerie_. His gaze swept over the soldiers who had fallen in the no man's land beyond the barricade, over the pools of blood beneath their cold corpses, and in the face of every dead man he saw Éponine. Was that the pain of the stiches which Joly had administered, or was it the aching in his heart which caused him to grimace?

When he had taken the kind stranger into the tavern to retrieve Javert, Joly had explained to him what he had done to Éponine. Enjolras had done his best keep his eyes trained on Joly's as he spoke, but he could not help but steal fearful glances across the room to the sleeping girl. The description of the operation which Joly had given him ran through his tired mind once more.

_Éponine was lying on the bar the way that Enjolras and Marius had left her, but Joly had been thoughtful enough to use her tan overcoat as a pillow to make her as comfortable as possible. The medical student had also cut a large hole into the left shoulder of her oversized shirt, revealing her delicately emaciated collar bone and the angry wound just below it. Enjolras tried to keep his gaze fixed on the hole but it kept traveling to her face, hoping she would open her eyes. _

_"I have cauterized her wounds," Joly explained. When he spoke of his medical responsibilities, his tone became sober and commanding and he seemed to age ten years. The characteristic smile which Joly always wore was also put away._

_Enjolras moved closer to the bar and inspected the girl. Sure enough, the side of her left hand, which before was hidden beneath a layer of thick red blood, was now a throbbing red welt. Through the burn Enjolras could see where the bullet had bitten off a crescent of flesh from the outside of Éponine's hand. He raised his eyes questioningly to Joly who nodded understandingly._

_"She should be able to use her hand once he has made a full recovery, although it will most likely cause her severe pain to bend her little finger."_

_He thanked his friend and backed away from the bar. Enjolras kept his eyes glued to the stitches and the burn on Éponine's chest, the gravity of the wound making turning away difficult. After a few moments he noticed the rise and fall of her chest and his anxiety was put to rest. There was still hope. Ordering Joly to take the first watch in the Café, Enjolras turned around and made his way outside._

Enjolras began to pace quietly. He had taken the first watch of the evening out of guilt and a sense of fierce pride. It was close to ten o'clock in the evening and the men of the barricade had taken to trying to rest, to nurture their sore muscles and aching wounds. He tried to keep his footsteps as hushed as possible so as not to disturb his friends in their precious moments of respite.

Continuing in this way for a half an hour, Enjolras succeeded in lulling his racing thoughts into a calm and manageable pace to match his footfalls. Lost in his reverie, Enjolras was unaware of the shift in the emotions and activities of those he was protecting. Silent, lazy napping became a somber celebration of life. It was Grantaire's voice, no longer slurring rude remarks but instead carrying a tune, which roused him from his thoughts.

"_Drink with me to days gone by!_" sang Grantaire, lifting his newly opened bottle of wine. Gavroche took the bottle in his small, grimy hands and took an avid gulp of its contents.

"_To the life that used to be_," the two sang in unison. Grantaire put an arm affectionately around the _gamin _as they continued their song. Soon the rest of the men joined in and Enjolras smiled down upon them, his blue eyes dull. He sang along in a whisper. _Les Amis _celebrated life until the clocks chimed eleven in the evening.

* * *

Joly sat down in the only remaining chair in the Café, exhausted. So much had happened in the one twenty four hour period, and the flood of information left his quick brain sluggishly trying to process it all. Joly took a deep and shaky breath, rubbing his temples as he closed his eyes and stretched his weary limbs. The creaking of the old chair caused his charge to stir in her slumber. That she was responsive to anything was a promising sign and Joly's heart flopped in his chest, proud. Éponine's fluttering eyelids ceased their movement after only a few fruitless seconds and he reached out to feel her pulse, the momentary pride replaced by anxiety.

"You're doing much better, _ma chère_," he said softly. Éponine's pulse danced lightly gainst his fingertips, but it was much stronger and more stable than it had been an hour before. Joly's chest swelled with satisfaction and he removed his hand from her wrist, ruffling his mousy hair in contentment.

"May I tell you a secret while we are here, _mademoiselle_?"

Joly received no reply and he chuckled softly at his attempt at sickbed humour. He took an unnecessary glance over his shoulder to survey the lonely room before continuing with his confession.

"You were my first live subject! And you're _still _alive!" Joly's excitement and pride overcame his weariness and he clapped his hands together in a burst of energy and glee.

The loud _bang _of the gunshot from the alley cut across the noise of Joly's clapping and excited babbling. The reality of the noise, and what it meant for the spy Javert, filled the room as though a rain cloud had drifted in through the broken window. Joly's youthful smile fell away and his cheeks, rosy from happiness, lost all colour. Éponine jerked in her sleep, instinctively shying away from the sound she already associated with the pain of the day's events. Her eyes remained close but her pulse quickened briefly.

"We're all just school boys, 'Ponine," Joly said quietly, his eyes darting nervously towards the window that looked into the start of the alleyway. He used her nickname freely, as though they were close confidantes. Those who stare Death in the face become bosom friends; it is the only favour He gives you before you know no more. Tears began to swim in Joly's eyes.

"We were school boys who, only hours ago, had never held a gun… and now look at us. Look at you."

Joly breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, repeating the motions like a silent mantra, calming his nerves. His tears began to evaporate and his heart slowed considerably.

He thought of Musichetta, his beautiful _grisette_. A tear ran down his cheek and Joly wiped at it furiously with the heel of his hand, embarrassed. Éponine was unaware, perhaps that he was even sitting there.

"I know what it's like to love, you know. I know how it feels to be uncertain of another and yet give them your heart regardless," he said. Joly paused and placed his hand over the girl's uninjured one companionably. "What you feel for Marius… what Enjolras is beginning to feel for you. Éponine, choose wisely."

He opened his mouth to tell the girl about how he knew what it was like to make all the wrong choices in love, but was startled into silence by the sound of the door of the Café opening. Joly spun around in his chair quickly, his floppy brown hair skidding out of place. He smiled, completely unsurprised when he saw Enjolras standing hesitantly at the entrance, his hand still on the doorknob.

"Is it that time already?" Joly asked with a goofy smile. He stood and offered the chair to his leader in kindly mocking reverence. "I was just beginning to enjoy having a captive audience."

"Thank you for all you have done, Joly," said Enjolras as he crossed the barroom, still favouring his left leg. Joly's smile merely widened to include all of his teeth. He left the Café without another word, glad to be able to find a place to curl up and dream of his Musichetta.

Enjolras sat down carefully, stretching his injured leg out straight and grabbing the back of the wobbly chair for support. He groaned on the way down to a sitting position, a distance which had seemed to increase exponentially since the last time he had made the journey earlier in the day. The noise of the chair coupled with Enjolras' grunt caused Éponine to stir once more. His breath caught in his throat and, leaning as far forward as his leg would permit, Enjolras sat with his face close to the _gamine_, monitoring her breathing and the movement of her eyelids.

She inhaled sharply, as though taking the first breath of air after almost drowning, and her brown eyes opened with difficulty. Her eyelids were made of lead and it took all of her strength to will them up. Once she had accomplished this Herculean feat, Éponine blinked slowly and with great effort in an attempt at clearing the fuzziness at the edges of her vision.

"_M-Monsieur _Enjolras?" she whispered, her voice even more husky than usual. At the sound of his name Enjolras' heart beat wildly in his chest. _She did not ask for Pontmercy_.

"I'm here, 'Ponine," he replied gently, touching her arm in physical affirmation. Éponine turned her head cautiously, afraid of experiencing any unnecessary and added pain. She fixed her drowsy eyes on his and smiled faintly.

Éponine tried to reach for Enjolras' hand where it rested on her arm, but the movement jarred the wound in her shoulder and she cried out agony. The searing pain caused her vision to go white and she gritted her teeth, fighting against slipping back under. It had taken her so very long to swim to the surface and Éponine was afraid of drowning if she fell back in. However, the fight was all in vain and her eyes rolled back in her head; Éponine had fainted.

Enjolras sighed, removing his hand from her arm and pressing it against his aching forehead. It was going to be a long night, and an even longer morning. The bells of a nearby church called out midnight.

"Hushaby, dear Éponine," he whispered, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair.

His thoughts were racing once more, but no longer were they on the revolution, the lack of ammunition, the damaged gunpowder, or the inevitable death of his friends. Enjolras was replaying every moment he had spent with the _gamine_, willing her to be well again, and wondering confusedly what it all meant. _This will be a long night indeed_.

* * *

**A/N: **_Sorry this took so long, oh my God! I just couldn't figure out what to write for the life of me, and then I had no idea how to end it and ugh. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Only a few more chapters of the revolution, guys. Dun dun dun. I'm thinking of breaking up Chapter 10 into multiple parts, 'cause it may end up being extremely long but all about the same thing. I dunno though, give me your opinions on that. Anyway! Hope you like this one, sorry it isn't super mega awesome or anything. But it's getting to the good stuff kinda. Enjolras is gonna have a revelation! Read/review/etc., lovelies. 'Night!_

_P.S. I found out I got into college, SCORE._


	10. Chapter 10

10

Enjolras was in despair. His friends, the men he held in his care, had satisfied themselves with listening to their leaders' fearless speeches and imagined the victory of which he spoke. His belief was infectious and Enjolras had made them believe as he did. "The people, too, must rise," had been his calming platitude before he had come inside to watch over Éponine.

However, the hope may be dying, the peoples' interest in the revolution may be waning, and the dawn was coming in a few hours and bringing with it a new battle. _Can we survive it? _Enjolras held his head in his hands. He was no longer beauty and soaring passion immortalized in rock by Donatello, but the epitome of weariness and anguish written of in Sophocles.

It was not the possibility that he should die that turned the blood in his veins to ice, but the gripping fear that his men – his friends, his pawns – would die. It may be true that they all longed for the dawn of a new day, the end of the night that is the king, but it hurt his stone heart to think it should come at such a cost. Enjolras shook his head, his hands still tangled in his blond mass of knots.

"All is not lost, not yet."

A soft groan came from Éponine as if in response. _What happens to her when we fall?_ Another weight fell on his shoulders, threatening to crush him. There were ten crosses to bear now: nine for his friends and one for his poor little bird. That Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Grantaire – any of _Les Amis _– would die was a horrible fate, but it was what they had chosen. Éponine had no business dying at this barricade; she had not chosen that, not really.

Lifting his head, Enjolras looked up at Éponine where she lay on the hard wooden bar. He wished he could give her something to make her more comfortable, but Joly had already done the best he could by putting her ruined overcoat beneath her head as a pillow. The sight of the blood that covered her shirt front, blood that also covered his from where he had carried her, caused bile to rise in his throat. She was stirring, but weakly. Enjolras thought with vague dismay that, if the barricade were to fall, she would simply be put to death. All of her pain, her selflessness to save Marius, and Joly's efforts would be in vain, and Éponine would feel the bite of a lead bullet once more. It wouldn't fail to do its job that time.

"Is there anything I can do, Éponine? Is there any way to save everyone _and_ France?" Enjolras whispered the questions as though he were praying, his voice low and passionate. Her fingers twitched on her uninjured hand and he moved haltingly to grasp it.

Enjolras' blue eyes were searching her face for any response, his heart pounding like a drum. Nothing. It did not take long before her hand stopped moving and her pulse slowed like a child drifting off to sleep. Enjolras sighed and removed his hand, letting his arm fall limply to his side. He fixed his eyes on his dirty boots and thought bleakly of how much he would give to be able to ask for her advice. The clever _gamine _would surely be able to come up with a trick or two to buy him and his men at least a little more time.

He thought back to the few times they had met outside of the weekly meetings at the Café Musain again. Inevitably Enjolras' thoughts returned to the night before, on the Pont Neuf. His inability to interact with women and quick temper when it came to Pontmercy had earned him a quick slap to the face. Of course it had hurt, but what had hurt more was to see the emotional turmoil and the fear swirling in Éponine's dark brown eyes. It was evident that she had already been to Hell and back, and tonight she had almost made the trip to Heaven.

How long had he spent with her on that bridge? He couldn't remember exactly, it had felt like days. Enjolras remembered the ringing of the bells of Notre Dame and the feeling of hugging the miserable and shaking girl to his chest.

"What can I do?"

Suddenly, his eyes snapped back to her face. Where there just was a dull, aching hurt and tentative hope, there was now something of the old clever and passionate fire in his gaze. Enjolras had experienced a glorious epiphany and the beauty of the hope it held was beginning to kindle the smothered fires of his soul.

"The bells!" he shouted, slapping his hands against his thighs and leaping to his feet, ignoring the painful protests of the wound in his left leg.

The well-oiled gears in his mind were turning at full speed and his spirits were soaring above the Café, above the miasma of sulfur and death, shaking loose the feeling of helpless resignation from his wings. Someone would take her to safety. If Gavroche could get out, then someone else could as well, correct? Enjolras may not be able to save the nation, but he could save her symbol. It was a battle he knew he could win, and that was enough to rally his spiraling spirits.

The new sense of purpose was a better medication than anything an apothecary could have prescribed for the persistent stinging of his stitches and it didn't slow Enjolras much in his rush to recruit the missing piece to his plan.

* * *

"I need a volunteer." The voice was loud, commanding, and had an edge of urgency to it.

_Les Amis _turned from their conversation or reverie to face the owner of the voice. Enjolras, silhouetted in the doorway of the Café Musain, stared back at his friends, majestic and terrible at once. He stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips and an expectant smile perched precariously on his lips. The fire that seemed to have radiated from within Enjolras before the battle, when the revolution was only a ghost and not a corpse of fresh and blood, had returned to his face.

"Wotcha need, m'sieur?" asked Gavroche, always eager to make an extra _sou_ or two.

"I need someone stronger than you, my friend," Enjolras replied, shaking his head firmly and discouraging the remark the _gamin _was opening his mouth to make. Gavroche shut his mouth with a click of dirty teeth and he scampered off to a dark corner of the little square to play with the matted tabby, obviously sulking but paying no more attention to the older men.

"_Mademoiselle _Éponine must be taken out of here, to sanctuary."

"Where do you propose she go, Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, knocking back another swallow of wine cheekily.

"To Notre-Dame, to Saint-Leu-Saint-Gilles, to Saint-Eustache, wherever!" Enjolras flung his arms open for emphasis. Grantaire snickered but made no reply.

Silence. A few men chuckled softly, almost incredulously. Enjolras' gaze swept across the group in the little street in an attempt at making eye contact and inspiring the same feeling of hope and urgency he felt in his friends. No eyes met his and, with a pointedly loud sigh of frustration, he turned back to the Café. He let his arms, still open from his impassioned speech, fall back to his sides, exhausted.

"I can do it, Enjolras."

It was Prouvaire. Enjolras turned on his heel, a proud and fierce smile forming on his perfect lips. The light of the smile was chasing the shadows of despair from the his face like the sunrise chases away the specters of nighttime.

"After all, I am a lover of lovers and happy endings, are I not?" Prouvaire stood and bowed dramatically. He straightened up and walked towards the Café and his leader, shrugging and smiling boyishly when Enjolras asked if he was certain.

Enjolras' heart leapt in his chest and he clapped Jehan appreciatively on the back, the best thanks he could give at the moment. The two men disappeared into the tavern.

* * *

Éponine was adrift in a terrifyingly vast sea of darkness. She was calling out for help, treading the ephemeral water of her thoughts. Never before had being alone frightened her so, and she was longing for a savior.

Occasionally Éponine fell beneath the tumultuous and jumbled waves in her attempts to cling to a single idea. These moments were the scariest she had ever experienced in her life; the world fell away and all sense fled. In these free falls, Éponine tried furiously to conjure the well-memorized face of Marius, her safety net and the thing that could make her happy even in her darkest hours, but to no avail. The face she saw dancing in her mind's eye was the marble face of Enjolras, the only voice she heard whispering soothing words was his. In her sleep, Éponine's feverish brow creased in confusion and frustration.

Through the constant ringing in her ears she heard the faint sounds of someone saying her name. The words were muffled, as though someone had put swaths of cotton in her ears. From where she was lost at sea, Éponine began to swim blindly towards the sound. The thought to which she clung and used as a raft to float through the darkness was her desire to figure out whose voice it was. _Is it _monsieur _Marius, coming to check on me? _Something in her gut told her she knew whose voice it was already.

The closer she came to the surface, the more Éponine understood of the conversation being had in that seemingly far off world.

"Take care, Jehan. Be gentle with her, she is still in a critical position."

That voice... it was very familiar, but whose was it? They weren't talking to her as she had originally thought, but apparently about her. _How curious_.

"I will, Enjolras."

_Why is _monsieur _Enjolras here?_

She kicked harder, pushing as fast as she could through the inky depths and towards the blue light that meant life. Éponine felt as though she had to speak with Enjolras, to explain her foolishness. She knew he had to be very cross with her, getting in the way as she had.

Only a few more feet, and then she'd be there – breaking the surface, breathing the thick June air of the Café, thick with gun smoke and the lingering feeling of rain. Her progress was interrupted by the sensation of being lifted by unsteady arms. Fear fluttered through her veins and held her frozen, leaving her to sink back into the darkness. Her body was swaying, as though being gently rocked as one would a small child. She dared not take a breath, her confusion and fear blocking out all other thoughts – and then she remembered _monsieur _Enjolras.

Her desire to explain herself, to ask of Marius' condition, thawed her frozen limbs. Éponine began to swim through the last few layers of thought again. One more stroke and her head would emerge – one more inch – she had made it.

* * *

"_Monsieur_ Enjolras!" she gasped, her eyes snapping open. The arms that held her slackened in surprise, but her fall was broken by another pair that was much stronger, much steadier. She gave a yelp of pain when her shoulder was jostled in the shift of position and she heard Enjolras curse himself for his blunder.

Éponine looked around wildly, now confused and in pain. She saw Prouvaire, the original set of arms, staring back down at her in awe. Looking to her left her eyes fell on Enjolras, the possessor of the second set of arms and her savior once more. He was helping her despite that she had not helped him. Shame welled up in her throat and tears began to pool in the rims of her eyes.

"Shh, _mademoiselle_," he commanded sternly. The look in his eyes was warm, but the firm set of his jaw told her not to argue. Éponine nodded silently, willing her tears to stay unshed.

Prouvaire shifted awkwardly, reclaiming all of her weight and Enjolras took a tentative step back. Before he made it too far however, Éponine grabbed a corner of his open vest. Her tiny fingers were ghostly pale from how tightly she was clutching onto the soft and ruined fabric, but her eyes were quite alive.

"_Monsieur_, I am so sorry. Please believe me, I never meant to be so much trouble."

Enjolras was taken aback. His blank stare of surprise turned quickly into a soft smile and he gingerly removed her hand, finger by finger, from his vest before answering.

"What you did helped Pontmercy save us, Éponine. You have no need to be sorry." He turned his firm gaze on Prouvaire who had been standing uncomfortably with the girl in his arms for the exchange. He was watching the two interact with a small smile on his lips, enjoying witnessing the tenderness which the girl brought about in the stony leader. Enjolras nodded curtly, his sign for Prouvaire to get on his way.

"H-how is _monsieur _Marius?" asked Éponine, but she received no answer from either man. She started to ask again but was cut short by Enjolras.

"Get her to the first church you can, Jehan," he reminded him. Prouvaire's smile widened and he nodded in understanding before beginning to make his way out of the Café. Éponine craned her neck, biting through the pain of the movement, to look back at Enjolras, clearly confused.

Enjolras' eyes were sad and tired, but he was smiling triumphantly. He looked as though he had won a battle and lost the war simultaneously. Prouvaire stepped outside and Éponine lost sight of Enjolras. She turned her head back around, her eyes sweeping the barricade before her for Marius. There was no sign of him. Prouvaire continued his march across the street and, coming to one of the exits in the back side of the barricades that flanked the Café Musain, he set Éponine down on a discarded chair that had slipped from its spot in the pile. She took one last look at the Café while Prouvaire worked to make a hole, and she saw Enjolras standing behind the broken window.

"Goodbye, _mademoiselle _Éponine."

* * *

**A/N: **_Sorry it took so long! I had an issue with figuring out where to take it, but I had a lovely helper to figure it all out: IrishSongBird! She's the b-e-s-t best. I hope you guys like it, and sorry once more that it took so long. Have a happy evening!_


	11. Chapter 11

11

As the sounds of Prouvaire's cautious footsteps died away, so did the lingering anxieties whirring around Enjolras' mind. The thoughts of Éponine that had been clouding his judgment and drawing his attention from France were dimming as the distance between them increased and his confidence in Prouvaire's success continued to build. Enjolras could once again focus on France and her people, his men and their lives, and know that he had successfully fulfilled one promise, no matter the outcome of the next battle. He had saved the child without a friend, and it softened his hardened heart to know that.

A lump was forming in this throat despite his happiness, leaving Enjolras with a bittersweet taste in his mouth. It confused and angered him that he should feel as he did, he who was extremely unpracticed with emotion. _I should be happy; she will be safe_. He imagined her waking up safe and in the care of a nun, warm, dry, and healing. Enjolras smiled, but his expression was hollow. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself of this, he couldn't quite shake the nagging thought that something would go wrong. He may have seen his new friend, his muse, for the last time.

Enjolras shook his head and swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty, tucking his emotions away as usual. He tore his eyes from where he had watched Prouvaire's retreating back sink into the shadows and glanced around the Café, unseeing. It was back to business and he knew it; Prouvaire would return to tell him that Éponine was safe in an hour or so. There was no use in standing at the window, statue-like and worrying, useless. He stepped back and steeled his nerves to face his men. He would give another speech, both for their benefit as well as his own.

* * *

"Combeferre," called Enjolras from his seat on a broken bedframe, "any sign of Jehan?"

Combeferre answered in the negative and Enjolras threw the piece of wood he had been fiddling with against the pavement, anger and concern dictating his reaction. Who was it he was worried most about? Why had he sent Éponine away, could she really mean that much to him? No one knew and they all took care to avoid the subject entirely, even the disrespectful and brash Courfeyrac. Enjolras was certainly a charismatic and charming young man who was capable of glorious and inspiring things, but he was also capable of being terrible.

"If he is not back within the hour, I am sending Gavroche out to look for him."

This precautionary suggestion was an order; any speech at all from Enjolras was an order. His words were punctuated by the ringing of the bells, chiming one o'clock. Time seemed to be dragging by and the national guardsmen had not tried anything in a good amount of time, making all of _Les Amis _uneasy.

Combeferre switched places with a drowsy Lesgle who had just woken from a nap. He handed him his carbine and made his way down the barricade to take the spot Lesgle had just vacated, hoping for well-deserved rest. Many of the children of the barricade were dosing off and childish snores were occasionally heard, disrupting the eerie silence of the _Rue de la Chanverrerie_. Grantaire had long ago disappeared – _Probably to drink himself to death _– and the only men still awake were Enjolras, Lesgle, Pontmercy, and the strange old man who was hovering protectively near where Marius was attempting to sleep beneath the window of the Café.

The soldiers encamped at the opposite end of the street were also sleeping, drinking, and dreaming. Despite their polar ideas and desires, the two groups were very much alike in the end. Some of these men had even grown up with the soldiers that lay dead in the no man's land between the two barricades.

* * *

Prouvaire had decided to walk north along the _Rue Saint-Denis _instead of taking his chances on the _Pont Neuf _or _Pont au Change _to get to Notre-Dame. After all, by taking Éponine to the _Saint-Leu-Saint-Gilles_, he would be back to the _Rue de la Chanverrerie _within the hour.

The girl had insisted quite boldly that she would walk most of the way to the church once they were out of Enjolras' sight. He had not protested very much, as her walking would allow for the pair to better blend in with the shadows of the Parisian night. In the commotion of _la revolution _the lamplighters had forgotten their jobs entirely, and the city lay in almost total darkness. The gods were smiling down upon Jehan and his precious cargo, so perhaps they would be kind to the men they had left behind as well.

Jehan and Éponine walked slowly and, at some points, unsteadily towards the church. Luckily it came before the barricade that was set up along the _Rue Saint-Denis_, and Prouvaire had hoped to escape the soldiers' notice entirely. However, they had come upon a group of replacement soldiers headed to the barricade a hundred yards from their destination.

Cursing quietly, Prouvaire covered Éponine's frail form behind his own taller, fuller body. He flattened them out against a dark brick building that was covered in a thick layer of shadow and mystery and held his breath, covering Éponine's mouth with his hand for good measure. Despite the gravity of the situation, Jehan's blood was singing in his veins and adrenaline was making him dizzy – he had only ever written about adventures like this and to experience one was a literal dream come true.

The patrol passed by quickly, their swift and booming steps matching the fugitives' beating hearts. Éponine watched their movements with wide and fearful eyes without making a sound. Her father had taught her to hate the law and be wary of soldiers, but she had also taught herself to be quiet when she was afraid. The less noise she made, the less she was beaten.

Prouvaire, when satisfied that the coast was sufficiently clear, steered Éponine lightly by her right elbow in the direction of the _Saint-Leu-Saint-Gilles_. The last hundred yards was difficult, causing the pair to cross a vast expanse of open street that was bathed in the bright light of the moon. The night was unbelievably clear, a shocking change so soon after the rain earlier in the evening. Nonetheless, Prouvaire and his charge made it to the large oaken doors of the ancient church.

Taking the giant iron knocker in both hands, Prouvaire lifted it and let it fall against the thick wood. The noise of it made him cringe and Éponine, slightly delirious from the efforts of walking and the stress of hiding, let out a quiet yelp of fear. Jehan looked at her pityingly, rubbing her shoulder reassuringly and whispering a gentle "Shh."

The kindly monseigneur, his nightcap askew and his cloudy blue eyes bleary from sleep, answered their call within a few minutes. He held a flickering candle in his right hand, the look on his face a mixture of confusion, distrust, and feigned benevolence. It was evident that this man had not wished to be disturbed from his slumber. His annoyance was forgiven quickly by Prouvaire when he realized that the priest was just in time. The group could hear the ferocious echoing of soldiers' boots coming up the street.

"Pardon me, Father, but could you help us?" Jehan asked, his tone urgent and his words hushed despite being within reach of safety. He was afraid of failure and uncertain of what he would do if the priest denied his request.

The priest made no response. He rubbed his eyes as a small child might and held up his little candle but took notice of the blood on Éponine's clothes and the deathly pale that had once again settled on her face. His questions died on his lips and, in a trembling voice, permitted Jehan to take the girl inside. The monseigneur had acquiesced to the unasked plea for sanctuary.

When Éponine was situated comfortably on one of the sickbeds that were kept in the oldest part of the church, off of the left side of the altar, she fell into a dead sleep almost immediately, the scratchy blanket pulled all the way up to her chin. The efforts of walking had exhausted her. Prouvaire thanked the priest profusely for his kindness. He saluted Éponine's sleeping form and took his leave, eager to be back with his friends and to tell Enjolras of his success and the whereabouts of the precious package.

The priest, before returning to bed, sat beside the wounded girl and studied her. He looked down at the girl's sleeping face and smiled gently, noticing the magic which sleep was working on Éponine's usually miserable expression. The beautiful delicacy of her childhood returned to her face when she was dreaming. He fancied her to be in love with one of these rebellious youths and that is what put her in such a predicament. _Perhaps it was that man who brought her here_, he thought with a chuckle. The idea of love and happiness in such tumultuous times overpowered his feeling of aggravation at being awoken, and he prayed to God for that man to be saved and for this girl to survive. Upon standing he made the sign of the cross on the girl's forehead and, with this done, retreated to his lonely little room in the back of the church and fell asleep. His old heart was warmed by the young girl and her dedication for he, like Prouvaire, was addicted to love.

* * *

"Ah, this is all so promising," mused Prouvaire. He was slipping quietly through the shadows along the _Rue Saint-Denis_, making good time and paying little attention to where he was going. He was confident of his knowledge of this part of Paris and his mind began to wander.

He was certain that there was love beginning to blossom for Éponine within Enjolras, and the possibility of love was exciting. Jehan made up an epic story for the couple in his writer's mind – one of passion, struggle, and sweet affection. Even without a fantastical backstory the idea that Enjolras, the marble lover of liberty and France alone, could finally feel something for a woman was epic enough for an opera.

"Mayhap it will break the stone of his heart, and Enjolras will be a man once more!" The thought brought a boyish smile to Prouvaire's lips and he shook his head in disbelief. He amused himself with these thoughts, paying little attention to his surroundings.

His attention was recaptured when he heard the stomping sounds of soldiers floating to his ears. Another patrol was approaching from where Prouvaire was headed towards. The breath caught in his throat in fear and surprise, but he quickly relaxed when he realized that they could not see him. As he made his way down the deserted street Prouvaire made sure to thank Providence for the lamplighters' oversight and the blessed shadows which surrounded him.

Jehan decided to take this opportunity to make his leave of the _Rue Saint-Denis_. However, when he looked around to find a familiar alleyway that would take him back to the barricade on the _Rue de la Chanverrerie_, Prouvaire heard a soldier calling to him, "You! State your name and business!" He broke out in a run, flinging himself down a dark side street in hopes of losing the patrol.

The footfalls of the soldiers at his heels matched his pulse and their shouts seemed to be getting closer. He took sharp turns, stumbled, twisted his ankle, and tore the knee of his grey trousers on the rough pavement of the little used alleyways. Prouvaire knew not what turns he was taking or which street he was parallel with anymore; he only knew that he would be shot if he were to get caught by the soldiers who were following uncomfortably close. He almost felt as though he could feel their breath on the back of his neck.

He made another turn, uncertain of where it would take him. Prouvaire was suddenly thrown into the middle of a camp of men with guns and bottles of wine. For one brief, beautiful moment he thought himself to be amongst his friends at the barricade in front of the Café Musain, but his hopes were soon blasted to pieces. There was an army officer, a man who could be no older than himself, with his pistol loaded and aimed at his forehead. Prouvaire had run directly into the nest of vipers at the opposite end of the _Rue de la Chanverrerie_.

A soft whimper of fear passed through the cornered man's lips but he put on a brave face. Pulling his floppy felt hat tighter around his ears, Prouvaire puffed out his chest and squared his jaw. In his mind's eye he saw Enjolras and tried to do as he would. His voice was shaky when he spoke, but his words inspired respect from the officer.

"You've caught me, boys."

* * *

There was commotion at the other end of the street. The sound of yelling, stomping, and the dull thudding of fists making contact with a human face bounced angrily from the dark facades of the surrounding buildings.

Enjolras was on the verge of sleep when the sounds began. He leapt to his feet from his spot against the Café, popping a few of his stitches. All traces of exhaustion were gone: the fire within him was blazing and he was ready for a fight, to protect his men and France. Hope flared up to meet this desire for battle and a small voice at the back of his mind was suggesting that it may just be Prouvaire returning with good news.

"Enjolras!" called Courfeyrac from where he and Gavroche were on watch. They had taken over for Combeferre when Grantaire had failed to show up for his turn.

"Is it Jehan?" Enjolras asked, taking a few cautious steps towards the wall of furniture. He was gazing intently into Courfeyrac's face, scanning it, searching for anything to keep his hope alive. Enjolras made no move to climb the barricade, uncertain of whether or not his stitches would last the ascent.

Before Courfeyrac could make a response, a piercing scream flew at _Les Amis _from the darkness. Joly looked up from where he had been attempting to sanitize his hands in the doorway of the Café, his eyes wild and fearful. He recognized Prouvaire's voice.

"Enjolras, it's Jehan!"

He dropped his last clean scrap of material on the dirty pavement and hurtled across the square. Joly scrambled up the barricade and leaned out, squinting into the shadows. His movements were frantic and he looked as though he was preparing to leap down from the mountain of wood and run to his friend. Gavroche grabbed onto his coat sleeve, tugging insistently. Joly turned his wide eyes on Enjolras, his look asking his leader to do something for Prouvaire. Enjolras shook his head faintly.

Before Joly could make any pleas, there was another call from Prouvaire.

"Long live the Republic!"

There was the sound of gunfire, and then silence. No one dared breathe. The silence was screaming at Enjolras, it was blaming him for this incident, that it was his fault that Prouvaire had gone out in the first place. He may have won the battle and Éponine may be safe, but he was losing this fight – losing his friends – and Enjolras began to wonder, what exactly would they lose in this war?

The sound of Joly's muffled sobs broke the awful silence. Enjolras could not bring himself to look anywhere but the cobblestones, afraid that he would be met with looks of accusation. The bells rang out two o'clock.

* * *

**A/N: **_Hey! So, again, this chapter didn't quite make it to where I wanted it to but I __**had**__to include Prouvaire's death. It's also not exactly E/E heavy, but I tried to include hints of it. After all, it can't be super fluffy just yet - he's still in love with France and she's still mooning over Marius. Anyway! Next chapter's the Final Battle. Enjoy, review, all that jazz. I love it when people give me tough criticism, so go right ahead. Have a great day!_


	12. Chapter 12

12

The night had passed without incident after the death of Prouvaire. The national guardsmen had left the barricade alone, much to the vexation of Enjolras. Perhaps they really did intend to starve them out before they began a proper fight, as Javert had said. The longer they waited, the cooler the fires in the hearts of the people became.

A few hours before daybreak, Enjolras had decided to go out and survey the other barricades of the city. He had slept very little and the dark circles beneath his eyes only served to add to the severity of his countenance. The rebels had run out of food, deepening the crushing sense of failure within their chief. Enjolras had been plagued by feverish dreams replaying Prouvaire's death, a death which he could not deny was his fault, and was kept awake with worry over Éponine and the revolution. Now, in his sleep-deprived state, he stalked through the streets like one of the stone lions of the Luxembourg Gardens: fierce, scowling, and more stone than flesh and blood. Though he ran into no patrols, none would have dared approach him had they crossed paths.

He made his way through each of the twelve _arrondissements_. Enjolras was met with a disheartening sight: the people had not stirred; the barricade at the _Rue de la Chanverrerie_ was the only one left. Those who Enjolras had been counting on to hold the barricades of the other streets in the city had thrown down their arms in fear, been killed, valiantly and cowardly, or had simply refused to join in their crusade. With each abandoned pile of wood and bodies, Enjolras felt God chipping away at his marble heart, bitterness threatening to snuff out his passion for revolution. The people for whom he had intended to fight had failed him; he had failed his men; he was afraid of failing France.

Enjolras walked numbly through the streets, almost completely unaware of the ever-increasing light of the approaching dawn. He detachedly recognized that he had to make it back to the barricade to give orders, to explain the situation, and his tired legs carried him back through the empty city and to the inhospitable nest he and his friends had constructed less than a full day prior. Enjolras took little notice of his surroundings, his mind fumbling about in an attempt to find ways around the deaths of his friends. He walked without seeing until his attention was called back to the present by a rumble of hunger from his empty stomach. Enjolras lifted his eyes from the pavement and looked up, startled to find himself standing before the awe-inspiring grandeur of Notre-Dame.

The ancient and crumbling stone masterpiece held her head high, proudly watching over her city with a stern and motherly eye from her throne on the _Île de la Cité_. Despite the damage dealt to the glorious building in the multiple revolutions of the past half century, despite the increasing neglect of the people, Notre-Dame continued to stand firm and immutable. In the rosy light of the early morning, the good Lady of Paris appeared as a shining answer to Enjolras' pleading questions to God. She was determined; she was unafraid. It was as though she was telling Enjolras that this was what he needed to be.

_"Your friends need their chief just as my city needs her mother. We do not have the choice to give up, you and I. We are fated to finish what we have started." _

Enjolras was revived and his tired mind was no longer struggling to piece together rag-tag thoughts with no results, but was instead performing its usual soaring feats of mental artistry. A new speech was being crafted in his head. _Not all is lost, not yet. _

As the cogs in his head ground out beautiful words of encouragement and sacrifice, his neglected heart began its work of breathing life into the stone man. The sight of the church had brought thoughts of Éponine to the forefront of Enjolras' mind. Her face flashed before him, every moment they had spent together playing behind his eyelids; the scenes stopping on the moment where he had realized that she was his muse, the incarnation of France. His stone heart beat wildly. The burning desire to speak with her, to ask for her advice, to make sure that she was alright, and to apologize to her for endangering her and sending Prouvaire to his death struck him firmly in the chest like a cannonball.

These longings almost caused him physical pain but he wrote them off as hunger and exhaustion, unwilling and unable to process his emotions. Should he go inside and ask if they had admitted Éponine? Did Prouvaire take her to Notre-Dame, or did he go in the opposite direction? He wasn't willing to spend any more time away from the barricade; his determination and sense of purpose had returned with a vengeance. Enjolras looked back up at the glowing façade of Notre-Dame and, with a small smile, crossed himself reverently in thanks before heading to the _Pont au Change _at a limping jog.

* * *

"We're the only ones left."

"What do you mean, Enjolras?" Combeferre asked warily, his usual philosophical serenity disrupted by momentary panic.

"I mean that we are the only barricade left; the people did not stir," replied Enjolras, his tone level and his face its signature mask of stony calm, devoid of emotion. He looked each man before him in the eye in turn, taking mental attendance. Grantaire was still absent.

None of the insurgents would have guessed that, beneath the stone façade, Enjolras was crumbling. Whispers of confusion and concern rippled through the motley crowd of rebels gathered before Enjolras as he crouched on top of the barricade. He held up a firm hand, a silent request for his friends to follow suit. The gravity of his look and their situation stilled the ripples immediately.

"My friends, forgive me. Let us not waste the lives of those who have dependents; who amongst our numbers is married?" A fair amount of hands were timidly raised, but none were of the core members of _Les Amis de l'ABC_. Courfeyrac attempted to crack a joke about staying a bachelor to Pontmercy, but the latter never raised his eyes from the pavement. His skin was as white as a sheet.

Enjolras moved carefully down from his splintery perch and came to stand on level with the men. He planted his hands on his hips, his feet apart in a formidably stern stance. The look in his eyes belied this sternness however. His blue eyes were filled with unspoken apologies.

"I have gathered enough soldiers' uniforms to outfit four of you," he said with a stiff gesture to a pile of clothing in the center of their dirty little street that had gone unnoticed by the others until that moment. All stares followed his hand and, as their eyes took in the pile before them in the dim morning light, their brains tried to process what it all meant.

"But I don't wanna go, m'sieur," called an unknown working man from the back of the group. His confession was followed by others mirroring it. Although Enjolras had never exchanged words with the man he felt as though he knew his face, or at least the look upon it. The determined set of his jaw matched Enjolras' own.

Enjolras shook his head as a mother would to a child who has broken the last egg on the floor. He insisted that the married men choose amongst themselves, and ultimately five came forward asking to leave. His stone heart trembled sadly, as there were only four uniforms. Before he had the time to remind the men of this however, the enigma of a man from the night before stepped forth and dropped his borrowed uniform onto the pile.

"Thank you, _monsieur_," Enjolras said reverently. He owed this man more than he had ever owed anyone before. The stranger made no response, but patted Enjolras on the arm as a father would his son and then retreated back into the crowd.

The five married men dressed quickly, quite aware of the increasing light from the rising sun and the danger it brought with it. They were dressed and gone, slipping out through one of the last remaining openings in a back alley behind the Café. When the men had gone, Combeferre cleared his throat pointedly. The noise had the desired effect and caught Enjolras' attention. He turned his piercing gaze on Combeferre who was meeting his eye sheepishly from the front row.

"Enjolras, the rain's damaged the gunpowder; we're low on ammunition."

Suggestions of what to do to solve their problem were flung hastily from the crowd, all of the men understanding what a lack of ammunition meant for the likelihood of their survival. None of their solutions were possible however, and Enjolras reminded them that the sun was rising and of the army that was now focused solely on their lonely barricade. His monologue was underlined by the sound of boots marching towards the Café: the monstrous army had arrived. Any protests or pleas which the revolutionaries were preparing to make were cut short by a frantic cry from Courfeyrac.

"Gavroche! Gavroche, come back!"

The assembly turned and saw the tattered coattails of Gavroche disappear through a tiny hole in the barricade. Courfeyrac lunged after him but his arm was not long enough to collar the bold _gamin_. Enjolras' heart stopped when he heard the shifting of pieces of the barricade on the opposite side. Gavroche had emerged from the pile of scraps into no man's land, whistling a happy tune belligerently.

Courfeyrac bounded up the unsteady mountain, yelling unintelligibly for Gavroche to come back. The little boy paid his warnings and pleas no heed and, before beginning his work, turned to look back at Courfeyrac and gave him a mischievous wink. While his back was turned, a young soldier coldly took aim.

"Gavroche!" shrieked Courfeyrac, moving to jump from the top of the barricade, wanting nothing in the world but to shield him from any and all harm. Combeferre, who had run up after the frantic young man, grabbed his waist tightly to hold him back. The rest of the rebels were rooted to their spots in the street below.

Gavroche wasted no more time in setting about to his work and resumed his pleasant tune. It was some ditty he had heard a week before at one of his sacred visits to the theatre. He crawled around in the debris, gathering the precious ammunition pouches from the fallen soldiers who had become parts of the barricade the night before.

A shot rang out before he could nab more than two of the leather pouches of hope, but it missed its mark by a wide margin. The noise startled all but Gavroche and reduced Courfeyrac's shouts to sobs of fear. The bullet nicked a piece of the barricade, the sound of lead on wood echoing threateningly through the early morning silence. Gavroche turned to face the soldier who had fired the shot and made an obscene gesture, an innocent smile lighting up his dirty features.

"Don't you worry, m'sieurs," called Gavroche, undoing another pouch, "I've gotcha covered!"

The soldier took aim again as a hunter would take aim at a deer, his conscience silent. The report of a gunshot was heard again, and this time the shot was no warning. The bullet caught Gavroche in the shoulder, tearing a ragged and bloody hole through his flimsy frame. He hissed in pain and glared at the line of soldiers who were now well established in front of him. The innocent smile never left his face however, and he simply began to use his other arm to reach for the ammunition pouches.

"Don't pick on me just 'cos I'm small, you sons of bitches!" Gavroche called, his tone shrill and yet commanding. He met the heartless soldier's eye as he began to remove the next leather bag.

"I may be just a pup," he continued as the soldier leveled his gun at him for a third time, "but remember: the pup grows –" Gavroche was cut off by the sound of the third and final shot.

The vicious lead teeth bit into the tender flesh of the urchin's chest, making its home in Gavroche's heart. Courfeyrac wailed in anguish and, slipping from Combeferre's stunned grasp, half-ran, half-tumbled down the barricade, running blindly for the tiny exit to grab his little friend. Gavroche fell back almost instantly, his sparkling eyes dull and unseeing.

Enjolras watched Courfeyrac fumbling through the hole in their barricade, horror crashing over him. His thoughts flashed to Prouvaire and then to Éponine, and back to Gavroche. He had had a hand in all three – he was their Angel of Death.

When Courfeyrac reappeared, he was cradling the lifeless body of Gavroche. The blood of the _gamin _was staining Courfeyrac's hands and shirt. When he reached the middle of the group of rebels, Courfeyrac fell to the ground, broken by grief and racked by violent sobs. Combeferre and Marius were trying to calm him, but he only hugged the little boy more tightly to his chest. A shout from a national guardsman interrupted their grieving.

"You at the barricade, listen here! The people of Paris do not want your change; they reject your dawn and have shown this by refusing to join in your suicidal crusade. You are alone; you have no change – surrender, save lives and bullets!"

Enjolras' eyes flashed in anger. Until he heard the officer speaking he had been emotionless and unmoving, but his melancholy was evaporated by the fire of his indignation. He met Courfeyrac's tear-stained eyes and saw the same angry passion behind the pain and grief.

"What say you, men?" asked Enjolras, looking at Courfeyrac but addressing his entire little army.

"Make 'em pay through the nose!" Shouted Joly, uncharacteristically impassioned.

"Make them pay for every man," whispered Courfeyrac menacingly, clutching at Combeferre's arm for support to stand shakily.

"_Vive la France_!"

Enjolras was full of his overwhelming thoughts of majesty and of his beautiful vision for the future of France, as he had been before the fighting had broken out. His friends, their dedication to one another and to him, had inspired the resurgence of his old passion. His heart was singing with pride and with confidence within his marble chest. The fear of death flew from his mind and, in that moment, was replaced by a giddy acceptance of his fate.

"Let us die to set an example, to prove our point," he began, pouring the entirety of his soul into this, his final speech. "May this inspire others to rise, to take up the muskets from our graves and avenge our deaths – to avenge France herself Remember, _mes amis_, there is nothing more glorious than to die for your country."

He ended his monologue by marching up to the barricade and climbing into place, breathing heavily. Sweat was pouring from his perfect brow, both in excitement and in fear, and his chest was heaving beneath his ruined and open shirt. He was ready to avenge Gavroche, to strike back for Prouvaire, and to prove himself to France and to Éponine, and this purpose gave him the appearance of being surrounded by a divine light. The rebels asked themselves if the man before them was Apollo, and none were sure of the answer. In unison, the remaining men moved to take their place beside their chief on the barricade. They lifted their guns steadily, prepared to face destiny.

"Fire at will!" Enjolras dared the soldiers. The only response made was a shout from the army officer who had asked them to surrender.

"Cannons!"

* * *

**A/N:** _Hey guys! Happy Valentine's day. I hope you like this chapter, sorry 'bout the whole death thing. /3 Kinda had to happen. I hope you guys have had a good week so far, and continue to have one (if not, I hope your week starts lookin' up)! Review and whatnot if you've got any issues or wanna leave some love - trust me, I live on this kinda stuff. You'll hate me in the next chapter, sorry in advance._

_PS: Another shout-out to my lovely beta readers, especially IrishSongBird! She's wonderful, absolutely magnificent._


	13. Chapter 13

13

The ringing of gunfire and the bellowing of the cannons were so loud in the little street that the noise threatened to crush Enjolras. Their lonely little barricade of less than fifty men was steadily losing ground to the massive French National Guard. Men were dying – men whose names Enjolras did not know and others whom he considered his closest friends – all falling to the ground in agony. Bahorel had been the first to die in the outbreak of the violence. Now, no more than a quarter of an hour later, his body was lost amongst the rising tide of the dead or dying. Their final cries were accusations.

"Enjolras, we need to retreat!" called Combeferre from where he was fighting, a few feet from Enjolras. He fired one of his last remaining bullets into the forehead of a bold young soldier who was trying to scale the barricade. Enjolras had long been out of bullets and had resorted to using his carbine as a cudgel.

He took in the scene before him: the crumpled bodies of both sides, the debris and the blood, Joly, who was shivering in fear just inside the Café Musain. Enjolras' mind was having trouble processing what his eyes were telling him, but he knew that he should follow Combeferre, his guide.

The French army was reloading their weapons and repositioning their cannons, and Enjolras took this opportunity to do as Combeferre suggested. Nodding mutely to his friend, Enjolras slid down the battered barricade. There were still twenty or so left of their numbers, including the only remaining members of _Les Amis de l'ABC_: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, and Enjolras. The last of the _Amis_ followed Enjolras into the Café blindly.

The defenseless, weary, and frightened men made a mad dash towards their final safe haven. Feuilly was struck down after only a few steps, but the rest managed to make it into the Café. Joly sobbed harder than before as Feuilly's body fell heavily onto the pavement, becoming one of the many littering the street.

Luckily, the cloud of gun smoke and the confusion that battle produces left the enemy unawares of Enjolras and his lieutenants retreating into the tavern. The morning sun was blotted out by the unrelenting miasma of battle, but Enjolras' lieutenants followed him to safety as though he were an angel who was guiding them to the Promised Land.

"We need to barricade the door!" shouted Combeferre when they had all entered the Café, his voice shrill and cracking.

Marius ran out of the side door before Enjolras had a chance to respond, unthinking, and began to pull furniture from one of the smaller barricades in the alley. A shot rang out louder than the rest and Marius fell, angry red blood leaking from the new hole in his side.

"Marius!" howled Courfeyrac, panicked. He made to run to his friend, but Enjolras grabbed his elbow and held him back firmly.

"Everyone get upstairs," he ordered. Enjolras' face was a mixture of utter anguish and eerie calm; he knew he was leading them to their deaths. Joly did as he said, running up the stairs and tripping over his own feet like a baby deer.

Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras hung behind to barricade the door. The only piece of furniture left in the whole room was the bar which Joly had been using as his operating table, and the three men grabbed it and pushed it against the broken entrance to the Café. That bar and the broken door were the last things standing between them and the French army, who had begun to crawl over the barricade like spiders from beneath a stone.

When the bar was secure, Courfeyrac and Combeferre followed Joly to the second floor of the tavern. Enjolras, using the butt of his carbine, began to break the steps from their slats on the staircase. Courfeyrac was doing the same work from above with a floorboard he had ripped up. Moments later, Enjolras was jumping with all of his remaining strength upwards, grabbing at Combeferre's hand where it was being stretched from the opening in the ceiling. He disregarded the searing pain in his thigh, too focused on the sound of fighting filtering in from the street outside.

The army was split: half was breaking down the flimsy door of the Café and the other half was fighting the nameless workers still left standing. The rebels were flinging glass bottles and broken pieces of wood down upon the soldiers from the windows and the dangerous rain was slowing their progress, but not enough. It wasn't long before the soldiers broke through their pitiful attempt at a barricade and inundated the first floor of the tavern.

Enjolras, Joly, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac huddled together in the center of the hall – a hall which had been the birthplace of dreams, laughter, and happiness, which was now to become their tomb. Enjolras signaled for his friends to be silent, and he moved to stand protectively in front of them. The soldiers below also fell silent, searching for the insurgents.

Joly shifted his weight and the old floor creaked. He choked back a violent sob when he realized what he had done. The enemy below heard the sound and, under their captain's orders, grouped together beneath the epicenter of the noise, preparing to fire into the ceiling. The cornered men above braced themselves for the inevitable, Combeferre and Joly clinging to Courfeyrac for support. Enjolras put his hand on Joly's quaking shoulder in an attempt at telling him that this wasn't his fault.

There came the loud _click _of twenty muskets being cocked in unison from the first floor. Courfeyrac whimpered, the last sound heard before an explosion of gunfire. Three men fell to the floor, dead. Enjolras' hand was still poised in the air as though Joly's shoulder was beneath it.

_Why am I not dead? I want to have died_.

Enjolras looked down at his slain friends, at the fear still etched on their faces. The noises from below resumed but he took no notice. There was an order for the men to search the upstairs; it was not enough for the soldiers to have killed his men, they had to admire their handiwork.

Enjolras recognized that he had only minutes left, at best – or perhaps, at worst. He heard the officer, the one who had ordered for the cannons and sealed their fate, commanding his men to scour the bottom floor and then check upstairs.

"Someone pile up the scraps of that table and count the bodies up there!" he barked.

Hopeless, Enjolras scanned the little room. The billiards table had been spared, upon Grantaire's request, and only a few rickety chairs around a single table remained aside from that. His eyes stopped on a figure in the corner, a dead man whose lifeless body was slumped peacefully and face-first against the singular table.

"Grantaire?" he breathed. Guilt and unexpected grief washed over Enjolras.

At the sound of his name that carried across the room to his ears through the momentary silence from the battle, Grantaire lifted his shaggy head. He yawned and rubbed his eyes childishly before turning around in his seat to face Enjolras. Grantaire's jaw fell open when he saw his friends lying dead on the floor and Enjolras standing amongst the carnage. He raised his eyes to meet Enjolras', finding in their depths only defeat and coldness where there was usually hope and fire. Enjolras' gaze was as dead as his men and Grantaire shuddered.

"Have I –" he began loudly, but was silenced by a fierce shake of the head from Enjolras. Grantaire heard the banging of the soldiers beneath their feet for the first time and nodded in realization. Fortunately, the men had not heard Grantaire through the din that had resumed outside and the scraping of the wood from within the Café.

"All is lost, Grantaire," Enjolras whispered, his voice reflecting the look in his eyes.

"Does this mean we're going to die?"

"Yes, _mon ami_."

"No."

The vehemence with which Grantaire uttered that single word was pitiful. Now, in the face of death, had Grantaire become passionate about something? Enjolras laughed darkly in spite of himself, the noise attracting the attention of the soldiers.

"Build that ladder faster, damn it!" order the officer. The sound of wood scraping against the floor of the Café grew louder, almost deafening.

Grantaire leapt unsteadily from his seat, physically inebriated but mentally sober. Enjolras walked brusquely to the window and looked out upon the damage he had caused, resignation pouring from his every movement. Grantaire's heart was aching.

"Enjolras, you can't die," Grantaire blurted. His tongue felt heavy in his head from the absinthe he had been drinking all night, but his mind was racing.

Enjolras made no reply, turning to face his friend. On his lips he wore the patient smile reserved only for Grantaire. He was sad, but his sadness was overshadowed by his determination. Even on death's front door, Enjolras was dedicated to every decision he made.

"Grantaire, please. It is my fault that this has happened to them –" he made a sweeping gesture towards the tableau outside and another to their friends on the floor "– and to you. Just as that spy deserved what he was dealt, I deserve to be summarily executed."

The noises from below increased yet again as the soldiers made progress on their makeshift ladder. Judging by the volume, they were almost done. Enjolras smiled at the thought of it no longer being minutes until death, which would come quite soon. Their situation was growing serious; Grantaire knew he had to act, to convince Enjolras.

"Listen to me, damn it!" he cried, clutching to Enjolras' sleeve desperately and shaking his arm. Enjolras looked surprisingly from Grantaire's hand to his face, so full of pain and passion that he almost didn't recognize the devout non-believer.

"You cannot die, Enjolras."

"Why not, Grantaire? These men have died and they are less guilty than I."

"Because France needs you," pleaded Grantaire. "_Mademoiselle _Éponine needs you. When this is all over, neither will have anyone to stand up for them, to take care of them. Enjolras, that someone has to be you. You are the only one who can."

At the mention of her name, Enjolras was again reminded of all of what had been and all of what could have been. He slumped against the wall, unable to suppress his regret. His eyes drifted closed, losing himself in reverie. Grantaire felt a pang of jealousy at the profound affect her name had had, but continued regardless.

"Please, Enjolras, live. For France, for Éponine… for me."

Enjolras opened his eyes and met Grantaire's, who had moved to stand only a few inches from him. The scene reminded him of his encounter with Éponine on the _Pont Neuf_, the intensity in Grantaire's gaze mirroring the anger in hers. There was a thinly veiled longing in those eyes that Enjolras couldn't help but notice.

"Why?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I am in love with you, Enjolras. I would do anything for you – polish your boots, make your supper, even die for you."

Grantaire's voice was thick with emotion, but he was smiling. It was as though the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Enjolras opened his mouth to make a reply, but shut it again when he heard a soldier yelling to his officer that their ladder was finished.

"Please," Grantaire repeated, capturing Enjolras by his shoulders and squeezing insistently. "This is my dying wish."

Enjolras merely nodded in consent, unable to process anything. Grantaire collapsed against his chest, hugging him both roughly and tenderly. He hugged back, limply.

Just then, an insurgent who had been grappling with a soldier atop the Café roof fell, soldier in tow, to his death. The pair hurtled past the window by which Enjolras and Grantaire had been standing and landed on pieces of the furniture from the alley barricade below. Grantaire pulled back from the hug, his eyes ablaze with hope.

"Quick! Jump out that window, those men will break your fall," said Grantaire, talking fast and slurring a few of his words.

Enjolras turned and looked out of the window at the bloody men. The soldier and insurgent had been unfortunate enough to both land on the cobblestones, but right next to their mangled bodies was a discarded mattress. He looked left and right, surveying the area for any additional means of escape and found nothing but a red flag that was nearly ripped to shreds from bullets hanging to his left.

Grantaire nudged his elbow, the grunts of soldiers growing louder. They had started their ascent; the time to act was then. Enjolras looked over his shoulder at Grantaire, his heart too full for farewells or apologies. He put his hand on the back of Grantaire's neck and met his tender gaze, trying to explain himself without words. A sob escaped Grantaire's lips, but he said nothing. He pushed Enjolras' elbow again, insistent.

Enjolras faced the window again and took a deep breath. He stepped onto the ledge and looked down, and then back at Grantaire for the last time. He smiled that patient, perfect smile and Grantaire's heart melted; he knew that he had lived his whole life to see that, and he could die happily. A soldier began to emerge from the hole in the floor, his hands bloodied and his face drenched in sweat. It was do or die.

"I am on my way, 'Ponine," he whispered as though praying, steeling his nerves.

Looking away, Enjolras grabbed the tattered flag securely with both hands and leapt from the window. The flag, the symbol of his revolution and of his dream for France, ripped in two under his weight but it did its job in slowing Enjolras' descent. He landed on the mattress with a thud with no bones broken and only the wind sufficiently knocked out of him. As he lay on his back, his vision shaky and his head feeling as light as a feather, Enjolras heard Grantaire's voice drift through the window.

"Shoot me boys, I'm your man. The name's Enjolras, Jean-Luc Enjolras. Long live the Republic!"

Twenty guns fired simultaneously. Grantaire was dead.

* * *

**A/N:** _So, let's just say this: I hate this chapter. Like, I hated writing it, I hated re-reading it, ugh. It made me sad and I'm so disappointed in everything that I wrote, but I had to update and this was the best draft/version I'd written. I'm so sorry, guys. I'm sorry I've failed you like Enjolras failed his men. Ugh. Anyway! The next chapter starts the hardcore deviation from all things canon, 100% all me. This also means ten million times more E/E feels! Alas, no more E/R. Harrumph. Anyway! Read it, review it, and please, for the love of God and Aaron Tveit, give me suggestions on how to improve this chapter, and the next one. Thanks! Lots o' love._


	14. Chapter 14

14

Enjolras would have liked nothing more than to lie on that soiled mattress and wait to be shot or run through by a ruthless bayonet. Grantaire's words echoed through his mind – _"I love you… do it for me… a dying man's wish…." _It was all he could do to keep from retching, the guilt he was feeling causing him physical pain.

_"Do it for Éponine."_

He knew he had to; he had agreed, he had promised. As soon as his breath returned, Enjolras shifted slowly to survey the area. Fortunately, the soldiers were focusing their attentions on dismantling the barricade and counting the bodies – the fighting was almost completely over; only a few insurgents were left alive, and they were being swiftly taken care of. Nonetheless, no one had thought to check on Enjolras and those who had seen him had assumed he had died from the fall. The blood that covered his shirt front, none of which was his, gave Enjolras an accidental disguise.

Enjolras flipped over onto his stomach and, on shaky legs, slowly raised himself to a crouching position. He took care to wait until no one was looking at his corner of the street before slinking to the shadowy corner of where the alley met the barricade. His eyes never left the soldiers swarming the little street. Instead, Enjolras stretched his arm behind him, palm open, searching for shelter as a blind man would. When his skin connected with the smooth wood of a dining table, Enjolras reluctantly shifted his gaze to the barricade, staying hunched over and trying his best to cloak himself in shadows.

"If I could just find an opening…" he mumbled, his attention split between searching for an outlet to freedom and the ever present danger a few yards away. Enjolras scanned the wall of furniture, but in vain. His friends had done a fantastic job in securing their position, much to his present chagrin.

The shouting of soldiers coupled with the pounding of blood in his ears was making it difficult to think. At any moment someone may notice him, and with every loud noise Enjolras' heart stopped. He crouched behind a table which had slipped from the stack and fallen on its side, creating a welcomed cover that eased his nerves enough to allow for clearer thinking.

"Think, damn it. Think," whispered Enjolras, crouching behind the table to bide his quickly diminishing time. He rubbed his sore leg, the last of the stitches ripping and the blood flowing more freely.

Shifting his stance to alleviate the throbbing pain, Enjolras' boot came down on something that was both hard and supple. The sensation was followed by a nauseating crack. He looked down and found himself face-to-face with a dying soldier. The man could not cry out, blood was clogging his throat and dribbling from the corners of his open mouth. He simply looked back at Enjolras with pleading eyes, begging.

_What should I help you for?_

The man's eyes flicked pointedly at the pistol he held limply in his hand. He was unable to lift it himself, having been shot in the back. The poor bastard had been paralyzed. Enjolras looked between the man and the gun at his hip, perplexedly.

Could he do it? The idea of killing was abhorrent, but so was the idea of this poor man's fate. Was it justified? Perhaps; the man would no longer be suffering, but the shot would draw attention to his position.

_This man could have been the one who shot Prouvaire. Maybe he was the one who shot Éponine_, thought Enjolras with a snarl. His lip curled viciously and the soldier's eyes widened in confused fear. At the sight of the man's distress, Enjolras' heart softened slightly. He checked himself, resuming his calculating mask of calm, a look of apology in his blue eyes. The soldier remained anxious; his eyes unblinking even through the pain, meeting Enjolras' gaze in a strange mixture of horror and respect.

Enjolras, while searching those pained eyes for answers to his questions, had already vaguely decided to do as the man was asking. Only one question remained: how would he escape? The sound of the gunshot would certainly bring at least one enemy to his safe haven, and they would recognize him. He looked down at his red coat, the tricolor, and the blood on his hands and back up at the soldier. There would be no use in trying to sneak out now; the red of the fabric or even the blood on his person would call too much attention to himself when all of the other men left standing were wearing the dark navy of the French National Guard uniform.

The memory of Éponine sitting on a park bench at the _Jardin_ flashed across Enjolras' mind. What was it that made her different? Her clothing. Enjolras suppressed the desire to scream "Aha!" Once again, the _gamine _had saved him and his heart swelled with gratitude while his fingers fumbled with the buttons of the dying man's coat. His eyes had drifted closed and Enjolras wondered if he was dead, but the ragged rise and fall of his chest told him otherwise. He only let out a few soft grunts in protest of the sensation of Enjolras removing his coat, but he was either unable or unwilling to defend himself further. When it was removed, the soldier slumped forward, whimpering in pain.

"Thank you, citizen," whispered Enjolras as he removed his signature red coat and donned the disguise. He draped his old coat across the soldiers' lap, the red of the fabric matching the red of his blood.

With tremulous hands, Enjolras took the pistol. He didn't hesitate long; Enjolras knew that it must be done. Raising the gun, he aimed between the man's closed eyes and pulled the trigger. The report of the gunshot rang out through the now silent little street and he winced at the noise. The grimace of pain that had been etched on the soldier's face was wiped away and was replaced by a peaceful smile. Sick to his stomach, Enjolras crossed himself and put the pistol distractedly in his pocket. He made no motions to rise from his crouching position behind the table.

"What in the hell was that?" called the officer. His angry question came from somewhere very close to Enjolras' hiding spot, and the proximity caused shivers to travel up his spine. He swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat with difficulty, waves of hatred breaking over him while the fires of revenge threatened to consume his whole being.

_"You need to play this right, m'sieur. Be careful." _

Éponine's voice was becoming his conscience, his guide, his Combeferre. He nodded mutely and, quickly grabbing the dead soldier's clunky hat, tried to hide his face as best he could before standing up.

"Nothing, sir," he responded, his usually commanding voice coming out meek and uncertain. He thanked God for the table he was standing behind that hid his shaking knees. Enjolras met the officer's hard, unfeeling stare and shivered once again. He cleared his throat before continuing, "I was simply dispatching the last of those _bastards_."

"Right. Good job, boy." The officer's praise was as cold as his gaze and Enjolras clenched his jaw against the curses he longed to fling at the monster. He surveyed Enjolras from head to foot. Taking note of his bloodied shirt and the wound in his left leg, he ordered, "Get yourself out of here and have someone dress that wound of yours before you bleed to death."

Nodding mechanically, his tight jaw twitching with the effort of his restraint, Enjolras stepped from behind the table. He took care to step over the dead soldier, out of conventional respect for the dead but not out of remorse; he couldn't feel that for this man, not yet. The officer, satisfied that his peon was obeying orders, turned and went back to screaming at the rest of the men.

Before he could make it more than three feet away from the barricade, Enjolras saw the torn flag out of the corner of his eye. It was still lying where he had landed with it on the blessed mattress. The National Guardsmen hadn't made it to this side of the street yet. Painfully, Enjolras hobbled over to the little pad of straw and, bending over at the waist, picked up the tattered red cloth. Swallowing down a sudden surge of emotion, Enjolras tore a thick strip of fabric off and tied it around the newly reopened wound in his leg. _How right that Patria should save me, when I could do nothing for her_, he thought bitterly.

He was no Joly, but his makeshift tourniquet worked well enough and the throbbing in his thigh eased a bit. Once satisfied with his handiwork, Enjolras resumed his walk towards the exit. His progress was slow but steady. Keeping his eyes fixed on an invisible target directly in front, Enjolras limped proudly through the throngs of his enemies unnoticed. He truly had become a wolf in sheep's clothing so to speak, and he might have smiled at his ingenuity had circumstances been any different.

After a few minutes, Enjolras found himself standing at the end of the _Rue de la Chanverrerie_. He dared not look back, lest the tears that were poised on the brims of his eyes give him away. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the air of the barricade for the last time, and began to shuffle once more in the direction of the _Quai des Augustins_. Enjolras knew he only had a few hours until the soldiers realized they were one body short, and that would mean they would form an investigative team that would eventually come to his house. If what he had in mind was going to work, he would have to pick up the pace to make it back to his flat in time to leave again by nightfall. As he limped along, his thoughts continued to linger on his promise to Grantaire, and what Grantaire could've meant.

_"Do it for Éponine."_

* * *

_Marius caught Éponine's tiny hand in his, tugging lightly, playfully. She turned to face him, abandoning her ruse of anger at the moment his skin met hers. Raising her brown eyes to meet his, Éponine couldn't help but let out a coquettish giggle. Marius shook his head with a smile – her smile – and tightened his grip on her hand._

_"'Ponine," he whispered, pulling her into his chest. She leaned against the warmth of his body, hiding her face in his shoulder. It was a warmth that felt better than the first few rays of the summer sun on Éponine's cold cheeks. Marius ran languid hands over her exposed and bony shoulders, trailing his cool fingers in odd patterns in the holes of her old dress. Éponine shivered in ecstasy at the sensation._

_Timidly, she raised her eyes to look up at Marius' face again. Éponine looked at him through her lashes, the way she had sometimes seen Cosette look at him as they sat side by side in her garden. He returned her questioning look with one of tenderness, his soft brown eyes seeming to caress her face with a love she knew he didn't have for her. Nonetheless, the intensity of his gaze caused her heartbeat to quicken._

_Marius bent his head slowly, his eyes still locked on Éponine's and the corners of his mouth pulling his voluptuous lips upwards in a crooked smile. After what had seemed like an eternity, those full lips found their place against her ear and Marius was whispering words of devotion and desire. It felt as though the softest velvet she could imagine was being passed across that sensitive skin and Éponine couldn't help but let out a soft mewl. _

_The powers of speech and all control of her limbs fled Éponine, her mind going blank. She once again recognized, only an ethereal awareness that came from her very soul, that these words were not meant for her, but the heat of his breath on her ear set her limp body aflame. The fires of her awakening passion burned away that nagging thought, her inhibitions, and her near perpetual sadness. Impulsively and with a swiftness that surprised her, Éponine wrapped her frail and shaking arms about Marius' neck. He pulled away from her ear in expectance and shock and Éponine used the change in orientation to her advantage._

_With her usual boldness, she tangled her frail fingers in Marius' dark hair and, standing on her bare tip toes, pulled him towards her. Their mouths met, lips parted. The velvety soft caresses of Marius' lips felt like molten lava to Éponine and her stomach knotted pleasurably, her body buzzing with desire. Deepening the kiss, Éponine arched her flimsy body against Marius'. As her tongue darted out to battle with his, Marius moved to cradle Éponine's head in his right hand while his left explored the sharp contours of her waist. The holes in her old green dress allowed for skin-to-skin contact that sent electric shocks of longing from head to toe, and it took all of Éponine's strength to keep her from collapsing at every evanescent touch._

_The sound of someone calling her name drifted to her ears and, mildly intrigued and fiercely annoyed, Éponine broke the kiss with reluctance. She let her lips linger against Marius' and kept her eyes closed, afraid of opening them and breaking the spell. The sound came again, more persistently the second time. At the repeat of her name, Éponine pulled back from the embrace entirely, disentangling herself and whirling around to search for the destroyer of her happy moment. There was no one there, but she heard her name once again. This time she thought she recognized the voice. Éponine shuddered, out of fear and not desire. She shook her head, wanting nothing more than to turn back around and finish what she had started with her Marius. It was finally her chance to be happy._

_Slowly and with a lingering glance over her shoulder, Éponine turned to face Marius again. Only, it wasn't Marius Pontmercy standing before her._

_"Enjolras!" she gasped, her eyes searching his in confusion. _

_He didn't seem to hear or see her, his expression its usual mask of blank indifference, and Éponine took a step closer in hopes of catching his attention. Enjolras made no sign of recognition and he continued to stare expressionlessly over her head. She was once again only inches from his face as she had been that night on the _Pont Neuf_, and Éponine couldn't help but admire his features: the strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones, immaculate brow, and soft lips. Her eyes lingered on those lips, a knot of something akin to longing forming in the pit of her stomach._

_"What would they feel like?" breathed Éponine, taking another involuntary step forward. Almost trancelike, she raised herself on her tip toes as she had to stand before Marius, only this time her boldness had fled. With trembling hands, Éponine steadied herself against Enjolras' shoulders, their bodies almost touching. He still hadn't noticed her, and that gave her hope. She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath before beginning to lean in._

_"Éponine!" the voice came again. She paid it no heed, too engrossed in her mission to notice anything else. _

_"Éponine, wake up!"_

* * *

"Éponine, for God's sake, wake up!" The voice belonged to Enjolras. He was kneeling beside Éponine's sickbed, his hands cupping her face and his blue eyes brimming with concern.

She opened her eyes slowly, timidly. Had it really all been only a dream? _It felt so real_, Éponine thought sadly. Had she any heart left to break, she was certain that realization would have caused a few cracks. Her sadness was quickly replaced by embarrassment when her eyes were fully open and the proximity of Enjolras' face set in. She lingered only momentarily on his eyes, not bothering to wonder why he looked so worried, and her gaze moved down to his lips. Before she could stop herself, Éponine thought about her dream and an embarrassingly deep scarlet blush crept across her cheeks.

"M'sieur Enjolras!" she croaked. At the sound of Éponine's voice, Enjolras leapt up from where he was crouching by her bed and made a jumbled apology at the impropriety of his actions, and explained that he had been afraid that she was worse than when he had seen her last. With an inexplicable amount of regret, Éponine followed Enjolras' now pacing figure with her eyes.

_What would they feel like?_

* * *

**A/N: **_I WILL EXPLAIN HOW ENJOLRAS GOT TO EPONINE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. I was getting tired of the lack of Eponine, so I'm going to go back and have him explain it, don't worry._

_Anyway: Sorry for the wait! It took me an unbelievable amount of time to write that dream scene. Ugh, I'm not practiced at that kind of stuff at all. Sorry if it's, y'know, awkward and stuff, and my deepest apologies that it was with Marius. Anyway, tell me how I'm doing so far guys! Suggestions are always welcome, and harsh criticism is also fair - especially in this particular chapter - so bring it on. Have a lovely night!_


	15. Chapter 15

15

"What of the barricade, m'sieur?" asked Éponine. Her words tumbled from her mouth so quickly that Enjolras was unable to distinguish one from the others, but he knew what she had asked him nonetheless. He stopped his pacing, hands clasped behind him with a calm that, still in the borrowed military uniform, was unnerving. There were a few moments where Éponine thought she heard him take in a deep breath, as though preparing to answer her, but it soon became clear that he wasn't going to. Her morbid curiosity trumped what manners and good sense she had, and she whispered hoarsely, "What of _Monsieur _Marius?"

"Dead," he replied, still looking away. Enjolras' proud shoulders sagged as though defeated and he exhaled unsteadily. He could explain no further, afraid to trust himself with anything but monosyllables. It was as though he had been drained of all feeling but sorrow, of all desires but to crawl into the grave, and it frightened him. He, who had been so proud, so alive, so driven, so gifted with words, couldn't bring himself to string more than one together. The adrenaline that had kept Enjolras moving had vanished the moment he had found Éponine. All that was left was a tiredness that he felt in his very bones, and an aching sadness that gripped his very soul.

"Dead," Éponine echoed. Her voice was hollow and barely above a rattling whisper. Enjolras bowed his head, the raw emotion in her voice a painful reminder of just how many people he had let down. "And everyone else? Courfeyrac, Grantaire…Gavroche?"

"All of them, Éponine," he choked, "All of them, dead."

Turning slowly to face her, Enjolras did his best to keep his face brave and his voice level, but she saw past his ill-executed disguise. Éponine was all too familiar with pain. She sat up in bed slowly, supporting her weight with her good arm and cradling the other to her narrow chest. Her eyes were wide and her mouth hung open in shock and inexpressible anguish. Enjolras kept his gaze level, blue eyes to brown, and she had to suppress a shudder at what she found there. The sorrow in Enjolras' soul was absent from his eyes, eyes that had only a day before seemed to be lit by a passion and fire from within, and there was only cold apathy in their azure depths. His jaw was twitching from the effort of suppressing tears.

"Then how did…," she began. Éponine was unable to finish her question, suddenly overcome by sobs that shook her fragile frame from head to toe. The burning pain in her shoulder only added to her tears, and she clutched at it in an attempt at stopping the throbbing. Enjolras was inexplicably enraged at her show of emotion, a display that he could not partake in and one he felt had nothing to do with his misfortunes.

_These tears are only for Marius; not for France, not for my friends, not for me_, Enjolras thought violently.

"How did I manage to survive, you mean?" The icy anger and condescension in his voice seemed to freeze Éponine's tears on her cheeks, and she snapped her head up. Enjolras continued, his voice booming, "How am I here, alive, and _Maiurs_ is not? How is it that _I _live and good men – better men than I – have died in my place? Is _that _what you are asking me, _mademoiselle_?"

Éponine violently shook her head, a motion that jarred her shoulder and sent fiery streaks of pain shooting across her body. She whimpered softly but kept from calling out, afraid of Enjolras. Her fear was evident, even beneath her pain, and the doe-eyed look she gave him doused his ire almost instantaneously.

"Éponine, I…," he paused and swallowed hard, silent tears of shame beginning to slip down his cheeks. The tears came the same way the first few drops of a rain shower fall from the sky: slowly, singularly, and then unstoppably.

The girl looked up at the sound of her name, terror becoming sympathy when she saw his tears through the fog of her own. Her heart, what was left of it, ached for the once unshakable marble man, and she let out a soft sigh of pity. Forgetting her own grief, her own pain, and the weariness she felt in her limbs, Éponine got out of bed. Barefoot and shivering from fever, she padded her way slowly towards Enjolras, her only concern: his wellbeing. Éponine knew what it was like to hurt the way he did; she needed to show him that she understood.

"Get back in bed, Éponine," he ordered, averting his eyes chastely. The nurse had apparently been in to change her clothes and the gruff men's shirt and trousers had been replaced by a thin, white cotton shift that fell loosely around Éponine's bony shoulders, but hugged her hips in a way that rekindled Enjolras' anger.

She shook her head in response to his order, though he wasn't looking at her, and continued her steady approach. Enjolras' thoughts flew apart, what was he supposed to do? Éponine was allowing him every opportunity to run, to physically stop her, but he found that he could not will his tired legs to move. It was as though he did not want to. He kept his eyes on the stone floor, but Enjolras didn't need to look up to know that she was still walking towards him; he could feel it.

"Éponine, please," he pleaded, his voice on the verge of breaking and his muscles tensing painfully in anticipation. She shook her head again.

With deliberate slowness, Éponine took two more steps and came to stand before him. Enjolras allowed himself to steal a quick glance at her face, making sure to avoid looking anywhere else. The look of compassion on her tear-stained face alarmed him and he recoiled involuntarily. Éponine smiled sadly, misinterpreting it as Enjolras being repulsed by her, but she made no sign of retreat. She was used to being repulsive, too. This was something that she needed to do; something she needed to prove to Enjolras. Before he had time to understand or explain, and before he had the time to order her back to bed, Éponine closed the gap between them. She flung her shaking arms around his waist, ignoring the screaming pain in her left shoulder, and squeezed as tightly as she could.

"W-what are you doing?" Enjolras cried, sorrow and weariness losing to his surprise. Éponine ignored his question and buried her face in the folds of his blood-stained shirt. Vaguely, Enjolras noticed that she was trembling like a leaf. Was it sweat caused by her fever that was seeping through his clothes to his chest, or was it her tears? After a few moments of tense silence, Éponine mumbled something into Enjolras' shirt.

"What?" he asked. His question came out harsher than he had intended, but as he looked down at Éponine his heart beat less painfully and his tears slowed.

"I said," she replied, leaning back and tilting her flushed face upwards to look at Enjolras, "that I'm glad you're here, m'sieur."

At her words, Enjolras' tears returned full-force, though he knew not why. The statue came to life. He lifted his arms, which had been hanging uselessly at his sides, and wrapped them protectively around Éponine's shivering shoulders. She began to sob again in earnest too; her tears, though silent, came faster, and her shaking grew worse. Enjolras joined her. He cried for his country, for his failure, for the friends he had seen die, for himself. She cried, not only for Marius, but for Gavroche, Grantaire – for the pain in her shoulder – and for Enjolras and his misfortunes.

_A good man like him shouldn't have to feel this way_, she thought, flinging her thoughts to God in anger and in hurt, _pain should only be for the wretched people – for people like me_.

They stayed that way, the peasant clinging to the Rock of Gibraltar and the drowning man to his last hope, very briefly. The minutes ticked by at the pace of a lifetime, simultaneously crawling and sprinting. Both Éponine and Enjolras were gradually able to regain control of their emotions. Éponine, who had spent much of her life in misery, simply ran out of tears to shed. Her head was still reeling, her soul was crushed, but her pain was turning inward. Enjolras also cried his eyes dry, not accustomed to such displays of feeling. He was only called back to the present when he felt Éponine lift her head from his chest, and the absence of the feverish heat recaptured his attention.

"Éponine," he murmured, stepping away and holding her at an arm's length, scrutinizing her. She gazed back with clouded eyes, nearly delirious from fever and grief.

"Yes?" Her throat was dry and her words came out like a desert wind across an arid plain, but her forehead was dripping with sweat.

Enjolras neglected to answer, panic rising in his chest the same way as it had at the barricade. Her illness looked serious and if she were to die, he would have no one left. Without preamble, Enjolras lifted Éponine's light body from the floor with newfound strength. Cradling her like a child, ignoring her protests, he carried her back to the sickbed. His panic drowned out the throbbing pain in his leg and he almost forgot to limp, only the blood he felt trickling beneath the fabric of his trousers reminded Enjolras of his wound.

"Put me down, _monsieur_," she protested weakly. Enjolras shook his head.

"You are getting back to bed this instant, Éponine."

"But why?" Éponine asked as he set her gently on the straw mattress. The fog of confusion and delirium was lifted from her eyes only to be replaced by indignation and something akin to admiration. Enjolras ducked his head and avoided her questioning gaze, turning his back on the bed and the girl. His silence infuriated Éponine and she made ready to stand again.

"Don't," he commanded, still facing the opposite direction. Éponine obeyed. Her will to argue was absent and Enjolras exhaled in relief, "_Merci_."

She lay back on the lumpy palette – reminiscent of the bed she had slept on at the Gorbeau House, but with less stains – and stared up at the ceiling in stubborn, sad silence. Enjolras set to pacing again. He was afraid that he would be swallowed whole by the yawning pit of despair opening before him if he sat still for too long; if he thought too much.

"How did you do it, _monsieur_?" Éponine asked after a long stretch of anxious silence. Her softly spoken words jarred Enjolras from his dismal trance.

"How did I do what, _mademoiselle_?" Enjolras replied, monotone.

"Survive," she whispered, still looking at the ceiling. Enjolras inhaled sharply and balled his fists, trying to block out the images that danced across his eyes. Images of bloodshed and death. Tears lined up in his eyes again, as though on cue.

"Grantaire. It was Grantaire," he croaked. Enjolras turned slowly towards Éponine, taking deep and calming breaths as he did so before continuing his story, "He offered himself to the firing squad as a means of buying me more time to escape. And I… I let him. I let him, Éponine. Does that make me a coward?"

Shaking her head vehemently, the girl looked imploringly across the room to Enjolras. This time he did not look away, but instead stared back with an intensity that would have terrified anyone else but her. Éponine's eyes were misty again to match his, but she smiled.

"He always cared for you, you know."

Enjolras nodded, frowning, "He told me that he was in love with me. Before I let him die for me, Grantaire said that I had to live because it was his dying wish." His words were laced with respect and remorse.

"To die for love," Éponine whispered reverently, her thoughts on Marius, "how beautiful."

"I should have died for the love of my country," he threw back, his self-loathing practically tangible, "_dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_."

"Listen _monsieur_ Enjolras, there are so many things you haven't done yet – so much you can still change about France," Éponine insisted passionately, ignoring the Latin she couldn't understand. It was a challenge to keep from going to Enjolras again.

"Grantaire said that as well," Enjolras murmured, looking at the floor. He ran his hands through his disheveled hair and cradled his head in his hands. "He also said that I had to protect you, Éponine. That it was my job to help you."

Éponine gasped, unsure of what to say. Her usual response would have been one of, "I don't need your help," but that somehow didn't seem right. Did she actually need him? Would she be able to continue living now that her Marius was dead? A memory surfaced; _she was sitting on the bank of the Seine, staring at the water. Éponine knew that she should kill herself, that it would make her parents' lives easier with one less mouth to feed, that she would feel much better when she was dead. She had touched the water; it was freezing. It was too cold to kill herself that day, perhaps when it was warmer. _Maybe this time she might really do it, it was June after all…

"Éponine," called Enjolras softly, his voice shaking her free of that morbid memory, "you are all that I have left. My father died in the battle of Waterloo, my mother died only last year, and I cannot return home lest the National Guard is searching for me. _Les Amis de l'ABC _have all died and I have failed my country – Éponine, I have failed you as well, but you are all that is left."

_It isn't I who needs help; it's him._

"Then I will never go away."

* * *

**A/N: **_Here it is! Sorry 'bout the delay. I wrote a super long one-shot about E/E baking a cake for Grantaire and that took longer than expected and then I was all confused and couldn't get back into writing for 1832 and, ugh. Anyway! Here's this. It's pretty angsty, pretty pointless, but it's a chapter. Oh, and it's my birthday today, so this is my birthday present to all of you lovely cabbages who read this story. 3 Have a great Pi Day!_


	16. Chapter 16

16

Enjolras' breath hitched in his throat and his eyes snapped up, searching Éponine's expression for any insincerity. He found none. Her words had pulled him back from a frightening precipice, from a ledge which he had been rapidly approaching. It was as though she had struck a match and lit a candle in his soul, and Enjolras walked unsteadily to her bedside with a look of reverence in his eyes. He fell to his knees, his tears falling afresh, and pressed his virgin lips to the thin fingers of Éponine's uninjured hand. She turned her head to look compassionately at Enjolras, the ghost of a sad smile peeking from the corners of her mouth. He could feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, its tempo increasing with every passing second. Before there was time for either to speak, the door to the chamber opened with a loud creak and in walked Éponine's nurse.

"What impropriety is this!" she shrieked from the doorway. It was all the poor old woman could do to keep from dropping the tray of food and medicine in shock, and she shuffled toward the two as fast as her angry old legs could carry her.

"_Maman_ Simplice!" Éponine croaked, struggling to come to a sitting position, "This man is my friend, En –"

"Friend!" the old woman scoffed. She placed the tray on the sparse nightstand behind Éponine's head. Scuttling furiously, Madame Simplice made her way back around the cot to loom over Enjolras, who had remained as silent and still as stone. Her wrinkled hands were planted firmly on her hips, the whiteness of her skin creating a stark contrast with the black fabric of her elegantly conservative dress.

"And who are you?" she demanded of Enjolras, squinting her dark eyes at him. Despite being nearly sixty-seven, Madame Simplice had magnificent sight. She was merely squinting for effect.

"E-excuse me for my lack of manners, _madame_," Enjolras replied. He reluctantly let go of Éponine's hand and stood, now towering over the hunched old woman by a good five inches. He looked back at Éponine, raising an eyebrow questioningly. She nodded understandingly. "My name is Jean-Luc Enjolras, I am a… a friend of _mademoiselle _Thénardier."

The makeshift nurse grunted in response, sweeping her eyes over Enjolras in appraisal. She took in every detail, from the appallingly disheveled blonde curls on the top of his head to the flecks of mud still clinging to his boots, and gave a _tut_ of disapproval. As she went to turn back to her patient, Madame Simplice's shrewd gaze fell on Enjolras' nondescript leather bag, filled to bursting with the clothes and personal effects he had taken with him from his flat. The bag would have gone unnoticed, had it not been for the sleeve of a burgundy jacket poking out from the side.

"Is this yours?"

Enjolras started, following Madame Simplice's gaze with impatience. He recognized his bag by Éponine's bedside and nodded slowly, questioningly. The anger that flashed across the old woman's face was fierce enough to intimidate the marble man, keeping him silent.

"I would like for you to leave this room, _monsieur _Enjolras," Madame Simplice said flatly, exaggerating the "_monsieur_." The look in her sharp eyes indicated that she was not allowing room for an argument, and Enjolras was too weary for one in the first place. He nodded curtly and, bowing stiffly to Éponine and the old woman, grabbed his bag and limped from the room. From the dim hall, he could hear Madame Simplice bustling around within the chamber while Éponine spoke hurriedly to her. He leaned against the wall and angled his head to the thin door, straining his ears.

"_Maman_," she entreated, "Why were you so rude to _monsieur _Enjolras? He's a rich man – rich like you."

"I can give you many reasons, dear child," replied the old woman, her tone condescending. The bustling noises stopped and Enjolras imagined that she stood before Éponine, ancient hands on her hips intimidatingly. "He was dressed appallingly – did you see the mud and blood on him? He must've taken a bath in it! – and, on top of his horrendous clothes, the two of you were alone together! This _monsieur _Enjolras could have tried to harm you. Soldiers should never be trusted. Did you see that bag of his?"

Éponine gave no reply, but Enjolras thought he could practically hear her rolling her eyes. Her silence was followed by a mumbled and pointed repetition of the question by Madame Simplice.

"Enjolras isn't a soldier, _maman. _He was the leader of _la révolution._" The old woman scoffed again."And besides, what about the bag?" Éponine hissed, apparently offended.

"He was planning on sleeping in this chamber with you, child, can you understand that?"

Silence followed. He couldn't deny that he felt stung by Madame Simplice's remark and Éponine's lack of defense, but his apathy soon reached up and swallowed the fleeting emotions whole. Before the woman resumed her work, she added another, "_Alone_!" for good measure, to which Éponine heaved a great sigh.

"Sighing is not ladylike! There shall be no sighing, _mademoiselle_!" Madame Simplice commanded. Though he could not see her wrinkled face, Enjolras knew by the tone of her voice that she was chastising with a smile.

"_Oui, maman_," her patient grumbled, obviously pouting. The cot creaked beneath Éponine's weight as she shifted position with a grunt.

Enjolras straightened up, the realization of what he had been doing finally dawning on him. Eavesdropping was never justified; he knew that. Silently apologizing to the women behind the door, he limped dignifiedly away from the alcove. Enjolras took a seat on a bench a little ways down the short hall and waited for Madame Simplice to emerge, dreading the unknown amount of time he would have to spend alone – a prisoner to his own thoughts. To be alone was dangerous.

Luckily, he didn't have too long to wait. Five minutes of twiddling his thumbs later, Enjolras was relieved to hear the old door creak on its hinges, quickly followed by the rustling noise of Madame Simplices' petticoats as she stepped into the shadowy corridor.

"_Madame_!" Enjolras called, grabbing his leather bag and pushing himself up from the dusty bench. Madame Simplice's head whipped around at the sound of his voice.

"Yes?" she asked with a warmth that had been absent from her voice when she had addressed him last. Enjolras paused momentarily, the confusion that flashed across his face going unseen through the gloom, before continuing to limp quickly towards the old woman. She waited patiently, drumming her fingers distractedly on the now empty tray she carried.

"How is _mademoiselle_?" he asked when he finally stood before her, checking his emotion and asking the question with an air of cool indifference. This was a mistake.

"Quite ill," replied Madame Simplice with a sniff, the warmth cooling to something akin to disdain at his emotionless question. She turned her back on Enjolras before continuing, "I would assume that she has an infection from her wounds."

"That could be fatal," he mused matter-of-factly. Again, his words came out cold and flat, and Madame Simplice's obvious dislike rolled off of her bent frame in waves. Had she studied his face in that moment however, the look of despair and terror in his eyes would have melted her heart.

"_Oui, mais_," she said, stalking away, "I can fix her with help from God, our Father."

"Let me help."

Madame Simplice came to an abrupt stop, nearly dropping the wooden tray. Turning slowly, she gave Enjolras a horrified look of surprise that would have had Courfeyrac laughing for weeks had he seen it. Enjolras winced at the thought.

"Please."

It was a word which he had little practice saying, but the determination with which he uttered it made up for that. Madame Simplice narrowed her eyes at him through the shadows and pursed her thin lips, weighing the consequences. She raked her gaze over Enjolras once more, witheringly. Enjolras raised his chin defiantly and balled his fists by his sides, but he could not cover the pleading look behind his eyes.

"No," she said finally, holding up a long finger when Enjolras looked as though he was preparing to argue. "You are a _garçon_, she is a _fille_, and this is a house of God."

With a loud snap, Enjolras clenched his mouth shut. A muscle was twitching along the right side of his jawline. Part of him, the less-than-sensible side, wanted nothing more than to dive head-long into a list of reasons why he thought himself qualified to help. The other side, the chaste and rational one, thought it best to let Madame Simplice have her way. Begrudgingly, Enjolras bowed his head with a sigh, signifying defeat. The old woman let out a triumphant "_Hmph_!"

"Now that that's settled," said Madame Simplice as she scuttled along the murky corridor, not checking to see if Enjolras was following her, "let us go and find monsignor D'Arc and arrange your accommodations."

* * *

Enjolras let out a heavy sigh, massaging the back of his sore neck. Had it really not even been an entire day? He cast a quick glance around his small room, identical to Éponine's but on the other side of the church.

_Is she going to be alright?_ Enjolras asked himself, pacing wearily. Madame Simplice had left him in a hurry; Éponine's condition had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Her fever had spiked and she was unconscious, the pain of her wounds and the infection pulling her under once more.

"Of course she will be alright," he growled. The stone walls of his room gave no answer and an anxious knot formed in the pit of Enjolras' stomach. He had always been a man of action; waiting and guessing had never been his game. Enjolras stopped pacing, the gash in his thigh thanking him. He let his mind wander to places he knew that it ought not.

Éponine may very well die, of that he was aware and must find a way of accepting. His friends had died, every last one of them, and he had been there for them. He should have died with them. But now this girl, this innocent who was caught beneath the wheels of life, was suffering just beyond his door. Was Enjolras to stay there? To sleep? To dream of gun smoke and failure, while one of the bravest, and the last in his acquaintance who was alive, slipped quietly away?

"No."

* * *

Madame Simplice scurried sleepily toward her patient's room, her hands laden with moist towels, food, and a candle. She had had little sleep while taking care of Éponine and had only left the room when the bells struck five o'clock in the morning long enough to get essentials. Returning a half an hour later, Madame Simplice noticed something lying by the door that had previously been hidden by the early morning gloom: the sleeping form of Enjolras. She studied him through narrowed eyes by the dim light of her candle and the early morning rays peeking through the window above his head.

Enjolras slept with his torso propped against the rough, unfinished stone wall, his head lolling at an angle that made the old woman's neck ache. He had his legs extended in front of him with a scrap of cloth, spotted with blood, pressed against his upper left thigh. Enjolras' other hand lay open, palm up, against his other leg as though he were begging for alms. Madame Simplice shook her head and made ready to brush past him without saying anything before her gaze fell upon his face. His stony expression was softened by sleep, but worry and sorrow seemed permanently etched across his countenance, just below the surface. The light filtering through the window caught on his golden mane in such a way that gave Enjolras the appearance of having a halo. He was radiant; an angel. Madame Simplice's heart, accustomed and hardened to seeing the starving poor of Paris, went out to the sleeping man.

_Perhaps he would not be so bad after all_, she thought with a small and cynical smile. Enjolras, apparently having a nightmare, woke with a shout. He glanced around wildly trying to regain his bearings and assure himself that it was just a dream. When he recognized the church and felt the aching in his joints from the fighting and the unyielding floor, Enjolras exhaled sadly and rested his head against the stone wall, eyes shut. Again Madame Simplice took pity on him, and crept up to him slowly, cooing as one might to a baby.

"_Monsieur_ Enjolras, I have had a change of heart," she whispered. He looked up at her, blue eyes clouded with sleep and terror left over from his dreams, but didn't appear to understand what she meant. Madame Simplice repeated her statement. "I need you to help me with _mademoiselle_."

Rising from the floor carefully, Enjolras asked her why she had changed her mind, to which the old woman responded, "That is none of your business, young man."

"Very well, _madame_," he replied, rolling his sore neck and stretching as painlessly as he could. Sleeping on the floor may not have been the best idea after all. Madame Simplice noticed his favoring one leg at last and silently scolded herself for not seeing his wound sooner. "What would you like me to do?"

"First," Madame Simplice said, handing Enjolras two of the moist towels and taking his soiled rag, "let us go get you cleaned up. We can't have someone in your condition taking care of another not too much worse off, now can we?" He accepted the cloths wordlessly, the tenderness of sleep falling away and his usual hard expression slipping back into place. Enjolras kept his mouth shut, his fine lips pressed together in a thoughtful frown.

"Come back here at half-past six, clean, shaved, and ready to work. If you are even one minute late, _monsieur_, you have lost your chance," she warned. And with that, Madame Simplice bustled past him and into Éponine's room, shutting the door very pointedly behind her.

* * *

**A/N: **_Hey guys! So, for those of you who know French, I realize that "maman" is a very personal pet name that may seem weird right now, considering the class stratification, but it'll all make sense in the next chapter or two with a look into Madame Simplice's character. Also, sorry this isn't a very long chapter, but trust me! I've got the next three/four planned out already. I hope you like it, have a great rest of your day!_

_PS: I got into Wake Forest University today! And I'm waiting on Duke! Ahhh!_


	17. Chapter 17

17

Enjolras arrived punctually, knocking sharply on the door just as the first of the half-past bells began to toll. Madame Simplice was elated to see that he had made good on his promise, though quite unsurprised. When she opened the door, the man she found standing before her appeared even more disheveled than he had when she had sent him away, though he had shed his thick layer of blood, sweat, and mud. Madame Simplice gave the man an extravagant once-over, _tutting_ softly.

In his haste, Enjolras had left his cravat untied and hanging loose about his neck, his shirt sleeves were unevenly rolled to his elbows, and his long blonde hair was still damp from his quick wash. He had neglected to put on a jacket, and the black vest he wore was wrinkled from its time spent in his small bag. Nonetheless, the life had returned to his eyes, and colour was coming back to his cheeks and high forehead.

"Well," she drawled at last, her displeasure with his appearance plain on her face, "I suppose you will have to do as you are." Enjolras ducked his head and gruffly cleared his throat, making no apologies. In the privacy of his mind, he was blaming the old woman's curfew for his appearance. Madame Simplice smiled condescendingly and stepped back from the door, ushering her helper in quickly.

Enjolras turned to look the woman in the eye as soon as she had closed the door, his passionate gaze boring into her. He held his hands outstretched before him, as though he were awaiting arrest, and chased all cynical thoughts from his mind. "Madame, tell me what I must do, and I will obey."

Madame Simplice laughed, the sound like that of rustling paper.

"All I ask of you is to watch over our _petite fille_ long enough for this old woman to get some rest." Enjolras nodded, his eyes flicking between Madame Simplice's face and where Éponine lay on the bed, tangled in a mass of damp sheets. Panic rose to meet his apathy. "I trust you know how to cool a fever?"

"My closest friend is –" Enjolras caught himself, a lump of bitter emotion forming at the back of his throat. Memories of Combeferre flooded his senses, but he pushed them reluctantly away. "_Was_ a student of medicine. He taught me a few of the necessities."

"Very well. Take good care of _mademoiselle_; I will be back before noon." The old woman led Enjolras to Éponine's bedside, made threats on his life should Éponine get worse while she was gone, and scuttled out of the room.

The silence that fell in her wake was deafening, and Enjolras was left with only his thoughts and Éponine's soft mewls for company. He busied himself with the tying of his cravat, but that amusement was over too soon. Silence stretched on again, and Enjolras cleared his throat just to fill the space. At the noise, Éponine's eyebrows drew together and her head lolled on the hard pillow.

"_Mademoiselle_?" Enjolras called hopefully, settling down on the wooden stool Madame Simplice had left him. The girl convulsed feebly in an attempt to cough and Enjolras' hands flew to her shoulders, steadying her lest she reopen her wounds.

"Éponine?" His voice was gentler this time. A soft groan was her only response, but she stopped squirming beneath Enjolras' firm grip as though she had heard him. Enjolras sighed and he removed his hands from Éponine's shoulders as swiftly as he had placed them there. Touching her felt wrong; it made the man uneasy.

The room became muffled once more. Enjolras' breathing echoed around the small chamber and the stagnation was drawing him into his mind once more, toward the precipice from which he knew he would not return. In vain he wished that Madame Simplice would return early to save him from himself.

As an excuse to employ his mind, and to keep his body from answering the ever-inviting call of sleep, Enjolras dabbed at his patient's forehead every three minutes, reciting the alphabet forward and backward before starting over again. He spent three quarters of an hour in this manner, but he noticed with frustration that the cold water was doing nothing to improve Éponine's condition.

"Combeferre, what would you do?" he breathed, wiping sweat from Éponine's furrowed brow.

_Enjolras sat sprawled in an overstuffed chair in his parlor, mumbling feeble complaints to no one in particular. A soft chuckle came from somewhere behind him._

_"Do not _laugh_ at me, Combeferre," the invalid snapped, "Be serious."_

_"I am serious, but I cannot help but laugh, _mon ami_. You look and sound absolutely dreadful," his friend replied evenly, coming around to face Enjolras. He had a spoon full of medicine in one hand, and a damp cloth in the other. Enjolras' bleary eyes darted suspiciously between the two, unsure of which he would detest most. He seemed to have decided on the medicine, his blue eyes coming to rest on the spoon with contempt. Combeferre grinned. "It won't be that bad, Enjolras."_

_"That may be easy for you to say, as you are not the one who must take it!"_

_Combeferre snorted, and gently shoved the medicine in Enjolras' face, ignoring the man's inane protests. _

_"You know, for someone who is planning a revolution, you are acting awfully cowardly."_

_Enjolras' mouth fell open, and he glared at his friend in indignation. Without another word, he took the spoon and downed the vile liquid in one go. The doctor smiled triumphantly down at his patient, who returned the sentiment with a sneer._

_"Now, that should take care of your cough, and this," Combeferre leaned down and placed the cloth across Enjolras' eyes, "will bring down your fever."_

Enjolras blinked quickly, chasing away the memory and returning to the present. Combeferre had been right right; the cool water had brought his temperature back to normal, and perhaps it would work on Éponine as well. _It wouldn't hurt to try_, he thought, picking up a fresh cloth from the bowl Madame Simplice had set on the nightstand. With shaking fingers, Enjolras placed the compress across Éponine's eyes, taking care to do exactly as Combeferre had. He ignored the gnawing ache in his chest at the thought of his friend.

Éponine jerked her head away from the cold water, and Enjolras placed his hands on either side of her face to keep her still. He wiped away the stray rivulets of water that ran down her gaunt cheeks, and smoothed her tangled bangs beneath the cloth. Enjolras had never seen something so fragile; it was as though the girl he had seen at the barricades had vanished, and an autumn leaf was in her place, shaking and pale and breaking. Enjolras let out a long, weary sigh.

In the silence, Enjolras felt himself being swallowed by the room. The stone walls were reaching out to him, and a restless knot settled in the pit of his stomach. He thought he heard Bahorel's raucous laughter from somewhere behind him; chills dance up Enjolras' spine, and he began to talk to stifle his imagination.

"What am I to do, Éponine?" he murmured, busying his hands with wringing out a fresh towel. "Can I really give up, say that my cause was not just enough for our Good Lord, and walk away? The guilt – the doubt," Enjolras paused, swallowing the lump that was rising in his throat, "it is unbearable, yet here I am, alive. And for what? My hopes and my dreams were pinned on this revolution; what is my life to become now, without it?"

Enjolras looked down at Éponine as though expecting an answer. Naturally, she made none; she slept on as though he weren't there and the ringing hush fell once again. Anxiety rose in Enjolras' chest, and he shut his eyes for fear of glancing around and seeing the phantom faces of his fallen friends. He thought that he could feel them in the room.

"Éponine, please," he pleaded, his eyes still closed and his hands balled into fists against his thighs.

"M –"

His eyes flew open, and Enjolras scanned Éponine's face for any sign of change. Her eyes were still closed, but her lips were moving laboriously. He knelt down beside her bed, taking care to favor his injured leg.

"M-Marius," she breathed. Her brows knit together in concentration, and her eyes were darting frantically behind their lids. Almost as quickly as she had begun to awake however, Éponine slipped back into her deep sleep.

Enjolras' mouth snapped shut, and he stood as quickly as he could, pushing himself up and away from the bed. He felt betrayed, and he was flexing the muscles in his jaw in anger, but why? The door to the chamber opened before he could come to any real answers.

"_Bonjour_," a man's voice called from the doorway. Enjolras turned to face the newcomer, and was almost surprised to see a man in regal robes standing where he was expecting Madame Simplice to be. "I am monseigneur D'Arcy."

"Jean-Luc Enjolras."

The little old man smiled warmly, despite Enjolras' cool manners, and the younger felt a pang of regret for acting as he was. The priest gave him no time to correct his mistake however, and he stepped into the room with a liveliness that was unusual for his age.

"How is our young lady this morning?" he asked, squinting down at Éponine's sleeping form. Enjolras gave a brief overview of what he knew and witnessed, leaving out her calling out for Pontmercy. D'Arcy smiled again and, turning to Enjolras, asked, "And, pray tell, who are you to her? A husband, perhaps?"

Enjolras' face darkened, and he heard Éponine's voice ringing in his ears.

_"Marius."_

"No one, _monsieur_," Enjolras replied, bowing his head respectfully to discourage any further questioning.

Taking the hint, though not without giving Enjolras a knowing smile, the old man merely clapped his wrinkled hands together. "In that case young man, you are an exceptional fellow for doing such a kind deed as looking after a stranger."

Enjolras shook his head, "It is the least I could do."

"I have known many, Jean-Luc, who have done less than you for those who have meant more; what you are doing is admirable, and the young lady will appreciate it."

_If she notices_.

* * *

**A/N:** _Hey guys, sorry this took so long. But hey! I wrote it on Barricade Day, and it's up before the end of the June Rebellion. Also sorry this chapter is so short; I realized that I couldn't continue what I had started for much longer without getting into the next part that would take a lot longer to set up, and I wasn't about to make you wait any longer than you needed to. I promise this won't happen again (extenuating circumstances, like a bad break up, graduation, exams, etc., kinda got in the way of all of this, but that's all done now). The next chapter will be coming soon, darlings. Thank you for sticking with me! Have a lovely rest of your June Rebellion._


End file.
